


i'll set you up (against the stars)

by La_Temperanza



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Canon, Blood, Choking, Dubious Consent, Intoxication, M/M, Minor Character Death, Slavery, Violence, War, body control
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-29
Updated: 2013-08-29
Packaged: 2017-12-25 01:38:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 36,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/947092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/La_Temperanza/pseuds/La_Temperanza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Canon AU: Crown Prince Arthur Pendragon has been lectured on the evils of sorcery for his entire life. When he is captured by the druidic Draig clan, he is horrified by not only their blatant use of magic, but also their positive and free-thinking views about sex. But over time, he finds himself being drawn to their customs, as well as to their leader, the young and enigmatic Emrys.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i'll set you up (against the stars)

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, now that I'm not rushing out the door after posting, I can now do a proper author's note. So, ahem! This fic was originally tended to be my submission for Perverse Bang, until it grew into some uncontrollable beast. Because of it, there's a whole load of kinks and tropes in it--some I didn't even plan for! I put the ones that I thought should be warned for in the tags, but this fic also contains the following: shaving kink, bathing kink, mutual mastubration, sex magic, emotional and phsyical hurt/comfort, soulbonding, tattoos, body painting, collars, enemies to friends to lovers, UST to RST, sex positivity, free love, orgies, background sex rituals, background hints of incest/polycest (two brothers with one woman), and probably a whole lot more than have just slipped my mind. Also, there are background pairings of Daegal/Sefa/Gili and Lancelot/Morgana/Gwen (though that last one is in description only)
> 
> I would also like to properly thank the following people:  
> \- **the_muppet:** for being an awesome and outstanding mod.  
>  \- **bloodsongs:** if it wasn't for her amazing art, I would have probably never finished this. Please send her your love for her work [here](http://blood-songs90.livejournal.com/20653.html)!  
>  - **fictionary:** My beta; if there are any errors, it's because I didn't listen to her, and she can say "I told you so. :P"  
>  \- **alilypea** and **kitty_fic** for looking this over for me.  
>  \- Just everyone in the PL chat. I would list them all if I wasn't lazy. But yeah, they were awesome and put up with me frantically asking questions every five minutes.

Night is just starting to fall by the time Arthur is dragged into the Druidic encampment. He fights his captors every step of the way, regardless of the fact that they easily outnumber him and he has been stripped of all his weapons. A mixture of days-old sweat and grime from battle coats his entire body, and blood oozes from injuries that would have incapacitated lesser men.

Yet he continues to struggle with a surprising amount of strength, digging his heels down deep into the soft mossy undergrowth of the forest floor. He can't even attempt to fend off his attackers in hand-to-hand combat, for his arms are bound together behind his back with tightly woven rope. He's tried to snap it through brute force once or twice, but he's only succeeded in chafing his wrists raw, the natural fibers of the rope leaving behind tiny stinging slivers in his skin.

The news of an outsider within the camp seems to spread like wildfire, and soon a procession of curious onlookers gathers nearby. They point and gawk openly, whispering in a low melodic language Arthur has never heard before, let alone understands. The anger and shame over becoming such a public spectacle heats his cheeks, but he holds his head up high, retaliating against their stares with a withering one of his own.

He's heard about their unusual manner of dress before, but it's quite a different experience to see it in person. On the battlefield, the warriors of the Draig clan are renowned for their thin but tough armor, crafted from hardened leather and dragon scales that are almost impenetrable to arrow and blade. But here, in the safety of their home, the men simply wear a braided cord slung low around their waists, and their breechcloth of animal skins serves to display their genitals rather than hide them from view. The women wear similar undergarments, their full breasts hanging freely out in the open, covered only by their long tresses of hair. Instead of fine silks and sparkling jewels, they adorn themselves with dried wildflowers and brightly colored feathers, as well as shells and other small trinkets that clink together softly whenever they move.

It's not what one would expect from a group his father has labeled as "mindless, bloodthirsty savages who slaughter their young and only care for themselves." But Arthur knows that appearances can be deceiving; these are the same people that killed some of his best knights before claiming him as their prisoner of war. He can’t afford to underestimate them.

As if to prove his point, Arthur is slammed down to the ground without warning, the impact jarring his already fractured ribs and forcing the air out of his lungs. Even as immense pain flares inside his chest, he wears a mask of cool indifference upon his face, not willing to provide the enemy any weakness to be used against him.

One of guards calls out in that same foreign tongue as before, but Arthur still manages to catch a single word: "Emrys."

Many have heard the stories about the mysterious leader of the Draig clan. Some say he's half-man, half-beast, and that he flies with the dragons to snatch up unsuspecting victims during the night. But few have actually met the elusive Emrys face to face, and as Arthur raises his head towards the large, grandiose tent before him, he has to admit he's curious.

What he sees shocks him. 

The figure that steps out of the tent is not that of a ferocious warlord but of a young man, barely on the cusp of adulthood. It’s clear to see that he’s no warrior; his body is lanky and lean, and his limbs too scrawny for him to be much use in any sort of fight. Ancient runes and other mystical symbols practically cover him from head to toe, the rich black ink a sharp contrast against his creamy white skin. Unlike the others, he wears no form of clothing, and his sizable cock springs forth from a thatch of curly dark hair nestled between his thighs. Arthur catches himself looking, and he jerks his gaze upwards to meet a pair of sparkling blue eyes that are heavily lined with kohl. The man smiles softly--the action making the sharpness of his cheekbones even more prominent--as he brushes unruly bangs away from his face. His movements seem hesitant, unsure, almost as if he’s nervous by all of the attention.

[ ](http://ic.pics.livejournal.com/fuckyeah/1173928/401685/401685_original.jpg)

Arthur gapes in disbelief. This is Emrys, the so-called fearless commander of the Draig clan, one of the most powerful armies in Albion? How can this _whelp_ be the one who has repeatedly thwarted his father's every move in the never-ending war between the kingdom of Camelot and the Druid people?

At first Arthur thinks there's been some sort of mistake. But the other clan members lower their heads respectfully as the man walks by, murmuring his name with a sense of awe.

"Hello," the man-- _Emrys_ \--says as he stops and kneels before Arthur. His words are heavily accentuated, but clear enough to understand. "You have traveled a long way, my friend." 

"What?" Arthur scoffs, eying Emrys' outstretched hand warily. Even if his own weren’t still bound, he wouldn’t reciprocate the gesture. He's doesn't know what kind of trap these people are planning, but he's not going to let himself fall into it. "You don’t know me, and yet you call me 'friend'?"

Instead of being put off by Arthur's brusque response, Emrys smiles wider. "My mistake." He pauses, assessing Arthur with a curious gaze. "Though I do know who you are, _Arthur._ "

Arthur shudders. He tells himself it’s indignation over being addressed in such an informal manner, and not because the way Emrys pronounces his name causes odd stirrings in Arthur’s belly. "If you know who I am, then you already know that you’ll have an entire kingdom to answer to for your crimes."

Emrys frowns, and-- _oh gods_ \--Arthur thinks he must have received a blow to the head somewhere along the way. Why else would he be distracted by the cupid’s bow of Emrys’ pink, lush lips?

"The Druids are not the ones who started this war, Arthur," Emrys says, his voice soft with a twinge of sadness. "They would be more than willing to become Camelot’s allies, if only given the chance."

"‘Allies’?" Arthur snorts. "Do you really expect me to believe that? My father has--"

" _Your father_ and his misguided sense of justice is the cause of all this mess," Emrys snaps, his eyes flashing dangerously. "He would rather slaughter an entire group of innocent people than bring peace to this land."

"Enough!" Arthur shouts, staggering to his feet. "I will not let you speak against him like that!"

Guards rush forward to restrain him, but halt mid-step when they see Emrys shake his head. Once again, Arthur finds their eagerness to obey him mind-boggling

"Maybe one day you’ll discover the truth, Arthur," Emrys says quietly as he rises up. "But for now, for the safety of these people, I’m afraid you are going to be our guest for a while."

"You mean your _prisoner_ ," Arthur says, spitting venomously. He quickly scans the crowd for any means of escape, and finds it in the form of the bone-hewed blade hanging at one of the guards’ side. Lunging for it, he twists his body to cut his hands free, and then claims the weapon for his own.

A chorus of angry shouting fills the camp as Arthur is instantly swarmed from all sides. He knows that even as an experienced warrior, he has little to no chance of surviving, but at least he can die with the comfort that he went out in a fight. He knocks one soldier down, and then another, his pilfered blade singing as it slices through the throng.

" _Stop_."

Everyone freezes, and then all of the Druids take a step back from Arthur in perfect unison. He raises an eyebrow at the circle of grim faces that surround him, keeping a fierce grip on his sword. He doesn’t know what is going on, but is mentally scrambling to prepare himself for any attack that comes next.

That’s when he finally notices what has stopped the fight: Emrys is standing nearby, palms turned out and eyes ablaze with golden fire.

Arthur has barely any time to be awed by the sight when suddenly the sword drops from his hand, as if of its own volition. His knees fall to the ground next, and Arthur realizes his body is being forced to submit against his will. He tries to resist, and then cries out as he’s blasted with waves of agony in response.

"I'm sorry," Emrys says, sounding contrite even as his eyes continue to burn. "But I won't let you get yourself killed. It's not your destiny."

Everything goes black.

*

When Arthur regains consciousness, it's to the sound of someone humming off-key as pieces of earthenware gently clink against each other. He tries to sit up, but his body is sluggish and unresponsive, his muscles tightly knotted. He tilts his head ever so slightly, and while his view is as horizontal as he thought it might be, the surroundings certainly aren't what he expected.

He's on a hard, makeshift cot in one of the tents, covered in multiple layers of furs, even though spring has been unusually warm this year. There's a nearby table that looks like it's being used as a workbench, its well-worn surface littered with scrolls and vials, along with various other tools and knick-knacks. Dried herbs and grasses hang from the tent's support beams, filling the small space with a rich, fragrant aroma, reminiscent of summers long past.

He's been taken to a healer, then. That's surprising.A multitude of children race each other throughout the camp, shouting happily as they play with a variety of crudely constructed wooden toys. Their mothers lightly chastise them before returning to their cooking, chatting amiably amongst themselves as they work around the fires. Joyous laughter fills the air as the returning army is welcomed back with open arms, followed by quiet weeping when the absence of familiar faces is noticed.

The figure of an elderly man shuffles into Arthur's line of sight. He's not wearing the traditional garments of the Draig clan--Arthur takes a second to thank the gods for small miracles--but is instead clad in a long, flowing robe, the woven edges of fabric dragging against the ground. The man measures an amber liquid out at the table, his fingers grasping the beaker with the precision of a younger man, and then grinds something with a mortar and pestle, all while humming that ghastly tune.

Just when Arthur is about to complain about the noise, the man turns around and gasps. "Oh! Sire, you're awake!"

Arthur tries to respond, but his words come out as a strangled croak. The man comes over with a tumbler and tilts it against Arthur's lips. "Here, drink this, slowly. It’s water with a tincture of willow bark in it, to help with the pain."

Not bothering to heed the warning, Arthur gulps the water greedily, his throat so dry and parched that he can barely breathe. When he finally has his fill, he falls back against the cot. It's shameful how a simple action has taxed him of so much energy. "Who are you? You're not a Druid."

The man chuckles, and pats Arthur on the shoulder. "I don't expect you to remember me. The last time I saw you, you were just a babe, only a few months old." He stands up straight and begins to pull back the animal skins, his hands running over the bandages Arthur has just now noticed on his body. "And you're correct, I'm not a Druid. But they have graciously welcomed me as one of their own. My name is Gaius, sire."

"Gaius," Arthur repeats, blinking. The name sounds familiar, but he can't place it. "Wait, you said you knew me when I was a child?"

Gaius studies him carefully, hesitating before he speaks again. "As Court Physician, I was one of the few people present at your birth. But that was nearly thirty years ago, back before...before the Great Purge."

Realization hits Arthur like a punch to the gut. "You practice magic."

"I did, at one time," Gaius says, peeling off the used bandages to replace them later with fresh ones. "I'm much too old now to do anything besides simple healing spells, but yes, I was one of the many who followed the ways of the Old Religion in Camelot before it was banned. I was willing to give it up, in order to pledge my loyalty to Uther. But it seems fate had other plans in store for me."

"Why?" Arthur asks. "What happened?"

"It doesn't matter now." Gaius shakes his head, and then applies a poultice to Arthur's wounds. "You should rest and focus on getting better. It’s a good thing you didn't puncture a lung with those cracked ribs of yours. We might have lost you."

Arthur wants to argue and press the subject further. Because while this entire conversation could be considered treason, and he knows not to trust the word of a sorcerer, his curiosity is piqued. But fatigue has already crept back into his bones, so his eyelids droop closed once, twice, until he drifts off again to sleep.

*

A day or two passes like this.

Arthur isn't really sure how long it's been; he's been confined to bedrest the entire time. The only person who he ever sees enter or leave the tent is Gaius, arms full of either fresh bandages or meals prepared for Arthur.

But sometimes, when Arthur is hovering on the border of consciousness, he swears he feels hands on him that are not the ones he's come to know as Gaius's. They're devoid of the wrinkles and calluses that come with age, with long slender fingers that brush at his brow, their touch cool and soothing. The sensation is usually accompanied by a low, husky voice, whispering nonsensical words that send a frisson racing down his spine.

Yet every time he wakes, his breathing shallow and cock inexplicably hard, no one is there.

He begins to grow antsy and irritable with the unknowing. Because while Gaius has treated him with the utmost respect, the man has remained quiet in regards to Arthur's fate. Arthur's tried to find out what will happen to him, first by subtle hints and then blatantly asking, but Gaius always manages to avoid the subject.

Arthur feels like a trapped animal, pacing in a cage before its captors decide to have some fun with it. In reality, that might not be that far from the truth; he's heard reports of slave traders in the north who put their fellow men in a ring and make them fight to the death, all in the name of entertainment. He doesn't know if the Draig clan do the same thing with their prisoners (or worse), and he's determined not to find out.

So he bides his time until he's presented the perfect moment to escape. It's not long before he gets his chance; on the third day he awakens to find the tent completely empty, with no sign of Gaius anywhere. He doesn't hesitate in throwing the furs off his body and jumping out of the cot. His legs are a little wobbly from lack of use, but they manage to hold up his weight well enough. He grabs an unused rucksack and starts shoving supplies in it, offering a mental apology to Gaius for depleting his wares.

It's past nightfall, so Arthur has the darkness playing to his advantage. He wonders if he can find where they're keeping his armor and sword, or perhaps he can nick a weapon off an unsuspecting guard again--

"How is he doing, Gaius?"

Arthur freezes. That voice belongs to Emrys, and it sounds like it’s just a few feet away from the tent. Arthur hides in the shadows, praying that Emrys and Gaius are just passing by and won't stop and see that he's missing.

"His wounds have healed over quite nicely, and his ribs seem to have made a full recovery," Gaius says. "It's nice to see you finally putting those healing spells I taught you to good use, Merlin."

Arthur stifles his shock. What? Does that mean the mysterious presence he felt before has been Emrys all this time, using his magic on Arthur? And why is Gaius calling him by a different name?

"Yeah, well, I learned from the best," Emrys says with a chuckle. "I still think you're better at it than me."

"True, but at least you haven't let this Emrys thing go enough to your head that you can't admit your weaknesses." Gaius pauses, and then his tone grows somber. "I'd be careful if I were you, my boy. This is a dangerous game you're playing, keeping him like this. I'm sure once Uther finds out what you've done to his son, he won't like it."

"He already wants to see my head on a chopping block or have me burnt at the stake, maybe even both at the same time," Emrys says pointedly. "I doubt that's going to change any time soon."

"Has there been any word from Camelot in regards to the messenger you sent?"

"No, and I'm getting worried. Even if Uther completely refuses to sign a peace treaty, we should have heard something by now." Emrys sighs, and when he speaks again, his young age bleeds into his words. "...Gaius, I don't understand. Why am I supposed to make sure Arthur becomes a great king? He's my enemy, and I should hate him for what he and Uther have done, right? But every time I use my magic on him, it feels like..."

Arthur doesn't catch the rest of the conversation, and he doesn't care--he's heard enough. Disgust and rage twists inside his stomach at the thought of being tainted by Emrys’s magic, and he searches around for a possible weapon. He finds a spare tent pole laying on the ground and grips it tightly, raising his arms upward in preparation to strike. He doesn't like the possibility of Gaius accidentally getting hurt in the scuffle, but that's just a risk Arthur will have to take.

The footsteps grow closer, and the tent flap lifts up as Emrys sticks his head inside, his attention focused on Gaius behind him.

Arthur swings with all his might.

What happens next is totally unexpected: the pole stops within centimeters of hitting its intended target, blocked by an invisible wall. And then Emrys slowly faces Arthur, his expression stony and eyes golden. "Arthur, put that thing down."

The pole clatters to the ground, and Arthur looks down at it, stunned that he has once again been disarmed so easily.

"Gaius, do you think he should be out of bed so soon?" Emrys asks, seemingly unfazed by the attack. "I'm afraid he might overwork himself. Arthur, let Gaius check you over."

Gaius frowns his disapproval, but it seems to be directed more toward Emrys for some odd reason. Arthur stands still as Gaius examines his injuries, his mind hacking away at the possibilities before reaching the only possible explanation of what has just occurred: "You put some sort of enchantment on me, didn't you?"

"Err, yeah. A compulsion collar, actually," Emrys says, the corners of his lips quirking to form a sheepish grin. "But you took out three guards when you tried to escape the other day, and just now you almost knocked my head off. So it's kind of justified, don't you think?"

"A compul--" Arthur grabs at his neck, surprised when he feels a thin strap of leather there, fastened just below the bulge of his throat. He didn’t even realize he’s been forced to wear such a thing. He gives it an experimental tug, hissing in pain when his fingertips feel like they’ve been branded with a hot iron. "...Why? Why go through all this when you could just have me killed?"

Emrys raises his eyebrows, his grin widening. "I had no idea you were in such a hurry to die, Arthur."

"Shut up," Arthur growls, balling his hands into fists as they drop uselessly to his sides. It’s beyond infuriating that he's at the mercy of these people, and made to be a living plaything of a foolish child pretending to be a leader. His glare flickers back and forth between Emrys and Gaius. "If not execution, what do you plan on doing with me?"

Emrys hums thoughtfully, chewing on his bottom lip as he crosses his arms over his chest. He tilts his head sideways, sizing Arthur up and down, like he’s assessing the cut and quality of a hunk of meat. For a brief moment there’s a strangeness in his eyes, a hint of gold swirling through the ocean of blue, before he finally asks, "What do you think we should do?" 

Arthur is sick of playing mind games, and cuts straight to the quick of the matter. "I think I already know," he says flatly. "Knowing your kind, you probably want to force me to be a collared consort of some sort."

Gaius chokes, his face turning a reddish, purple shade. Emrys looks equally wrong-footed; immediately his cheeks are splotched with color, and the tips of his ears are burning a bright red as he splutters, "Wh-What?"

"Isn’t that what your people do?" Arthur asks, narrowing his eyes. "I've heard all the sick and despicable things the Druids have done in the name of satisfying their carnal urges." 

He’s disgusted by the thought of being used like that. But it seems he has a current lack of options available to him, at least for now. Besides, it’s not like he’s some blushing damsel in distress, worrying about his precious virtue being compromised. He can handle it, and still hold his head up high afterwards.

"Sire, that's--" Gaius starts to protest, flustered. "I think you I think you might have the wrong idea--"

"Sure, why not?"

Both Arthur and Gaius whip their heads around to stare at Emrys, mouths agape. Emrys simply shrugs, his expression faintly amused as he locks eyes with Arthur. "Who knows, having a sex slave might be fun."

"Merlin!" Gaius shouts, looking horrified. "You can’t be serious!"

"Arthur, once Gaius does one last check to make sure you’re fully recovered, you should come to my tent," Emrys says, ignoring Gaius’ reprimand in favor of reaching out to stroke Arthur’s cheek. Arthur flinches and tries to pull away, but Emrys suddenly grips his chin firmly and holds him still, smirking. "Try not to be too late, _sire_."

And then he’s gone, the flap of the tent swinging back into place behind him.

*

Arthur doesn't really know what to expect once he reaches Emrys' tent. For a brief moment, he remembers the tales of the grand caravans in the Middle East, filled with harems of scantily clad girls entertaining their masters, the aroma of exotic incense hanging heavily in the air. He tries to imagine Emrys as one of those royal Sheikhs, palm fronds fanning him from either side as a servant feeds him grapes by hand.

It’s such a ridiculous mental image that Arthur has to laugh. 

No, despite the Druids’ eccentricities, Arthur thinks that, if anything, Emrys’s tent will be furnished like most warlords: too large and luxurious for just one person, and filled with needless displays of their power in the form of stuffed game and richly woven tapestries. 

Arthur had planned on ignoring Emrys's summons for as long as he could, just to prove he couldn't be put into submission so easily. But as soon as Gaius gave a final clean bill of health, Arthur's feet began to move on their own. He struggled to resist, straining against himself with each and every step. But any attempt to stop his body from maneuvering its way throughout the camp has proven useless.

When he arrives, Arthur doesn't spot any guards stationed nearby. He finds that a bit odd; even though he's been trained to excel in close combat and can fend for himself, there are always guards posted outside his chambers’ door back in Camelot, just in case there are any assailants during the night. Is Emrys so full of himself that he believes himself to be invulnerable? Or is he so naive that he thinks himself safe in the center of his camp? Either way, maybe Arthur can use it to his advantage. 

He doesn't bother to announce himself or wait for word to enter. Instead, he thunders inside without warning, hoping to catch Emrys off-guard with his sudden presence. But Arthur stops short at the sight of Emrys embracing a young woman, running his fingers through her dark hair. It's obviously an intimate scene; Emrys places a gentle kiss to her temple, and she sighs in response, soft and delicate.

Instead of feeling victorious over catching Emrys unaware, Arthur feels uneasy, an intruder in something private. He clears his throat loudly, and gets some grim sense of satisfaction at watching the two of them jump apart.

"A-Arthur!" Emrys exclaims, his cheeks slightly flushed. "What took you so long?"

"I came as soon as Gaius said I was fit to. You and your cursed collar made sure of that," Arthur says, jabbing his thumb in the direction of his throat. He takes a quick glance around, and while Emrys' tent is as big as he expected, its decorations are are sparse and simple. There are no treasure chests overflowing with golds and jewels, no luxurious silks and satins used for bed linens, no conquests of war or ceremonial armor. 

And definitely no harem in sight.

In fact, if Arthur didn't know any better, he would think the dwelling belonged to a peasant rather than some great leader. There's a single cot towards the back, similar to the one in Gaius's but only a little bit wider. Its rumpled bedding is draped messily across the floor, unmade, an infraction Arthur would fire his own servant over if it ever happened to him.

There's an assortment of trinkets and colorful baubles that catch the light from the torches lit outside, creating shimmering shapes that dance and flicker along the canvas walls. An oval rug has been laid in the center of the flattened dirt floor, not made of wool fibers but of rush weeds, carefully dried and knotted by hand. Books and scrolls are haphazardly thrown everywhere, including across the solitary wooden table in the middle of the tent, its surface buried under a mound of papers.

In short, it's a total pigsty.

Arthur wrinkles his nose. "This place is disgusting."

Emrys pulls a pained face. "I get enough about it from Gaius. I don't need to hear it from you too," he says. But he still picks up a dirty plate that's lying on the ground, seemingly in half-hearted attempt to tidy up.

It's mindboggling to Arthur how easily Emrys can go from a powerful being to a petulant child. He turns his gaze towards the girl, who is standing to the side, staring at Arthur fearfully. He supposes it makes sense for her to be afraid of him, considering Camelot's been at war with her kind ever since he was born. But it doesn't mean he likes to see the terror in her eyes.

"Do you want me to leave the two of you alone?" He asks flatly, directing the question towards Emrys. He's willing to use any excuse he can in order to leave. "I can come back later--"

" _No_ ," Emrys says curtly, and there's the controlling side of him again coming through. "You're staying with me from now on. Freya can help you undress for your bath if you'd like."

It's just now that Arthur notices the large tub set off to the side, filled to the brim, tiny puffs of steam rising from the water surface. Even when he has his servant bring boiling water from the kitchens, he can never get bathwater that hot, so he bets this tub must have been heated using magic. He balks, especially when the girl Freya hesitantly comes closer to him. "I don't need one."

"I say you do," Emrys says, and now he's smirking, cocksure. "You've been lying in your own sweat and blood for over three days now, and that's just after you were in battle. You reek, Arthur."

Arthur snatches his arm away from Freya when she goes to remove his shirt. "I can take care of it myself," he says, regretting the roughness of his tone when she flinches back. For all he knows, she could be a captive as well, and he can't be too harsh on her. Instead, he channels all his anger at Emrys. "Can't you leave me with some modesty and just let me wash in privacy?"

"If I left you alone, you'd try to escape," Emrys says. But he still nods in Freya's direction, giving her an encouraging smile. "You can go now, Freya. Thanks for your help earlier."

Freya smiles softly in return, and then leaves. Arthur watches her go before he asks, "Is that poor girl one of your slaves as well?"

Emrys blinks, and then lets out a nervous laugh. "Freya is my _sister_. And she's hardly a 'poor girl.'"

"Oh," Arthur says dully.

"Were you jealous, Arthur?" Emrys teases. "Don't worry, you're the only slave I have."

"Don't be an idiot," Arthur snaps. "I was just wondering if there was anyone else who’s forced to put up with you."

Emrys' good mood seems to deflate instantly. "...Arthur," he finally says after a few seconds of silence, "take off your clothes and get in the tub already."

Arthur's hands reach for the hem of his shirt first, tugging it up and over his head in one fluid motion. His fingers go for the laces on his breeches next, then yank down the fabric until it falls and pools around his ankles. He wishes he could turn around, because Emrys is watching him strip the entire time with a hungry sort of gaze. When he removes his smallclothes next, the cool evening air nipping at the sensitive skin of his groin, Arthur swears he sees Emrys' pupils dilate and darken.

Once Arthur steps inside the tub, the water turns his skin a bright rosy pink, but it isn't so hot that it’s uncomfortable to be in. As he sinks downwards, he can't bite back the sigh of pleasure that escapes him, his eyes automatically fluttering close. For all his earlier protests, he has to admit that it's nice to get a chance to soak his sore and aching muscles.

But just when he's starting to relax and unwind, he feels blunt fingernails drag against his scalp. He springs to his feet and looks down at Emrys kneeling by the tub. "What do you think you're doing?"

"Sit down, Arthur," Emrys says, scooting closer when Arthur is compiled to listen. "Haven't you had anyone wash your hair before?"

"One of my servants, maybe," Arthur says, shivering when he feels Emrys' fingers running through his hair again. "But I don't understand why _you're_ doing it."

Emrys scoffs fondly. "Well, we don't have servants here, _sire_ , but you still need to get clean."

Arthur doesn't respond, wary over Emrys' secret motives. Emrys himself seems oblivious to Arthur's thoughts, humming as he scrubs the dirt and grime from Arthur's hair until it squeaks clean. His thumb rubs soothing circles in the spot behind Arthur's right ear, and Arthur shivers again at the sensation.

"Cold?" Emrys asks quietly, reaching forward to test the water. "I can reheat the bath if you'd like."

"It's fine," Arthur mumbles, not wanting to admit that every touch against his now hypersensitive skin goes straight to his cock. He tries to remind himself that not only is this another man touching him, but also his sworn enemy and current jailer, but nothing seems to wilt the erection pulsating between his legs. He's just thankful that the soap bubbles floating on the water surface can hide it, because he refuses to reach down and give himself some relief.

Suddenly Emrys' hands are gone, and Arthur actually mourns their loss until he realizes what he's doing. He cracks one eye open, turning his head along the rim of the tub until he spots Emrys standing off to the side. "What are you doing now?"

Emrys fumbles with a satchel until he draws out a small blade and whetstone. He tests the edge by placing it against the pad of his thumb, and then sucks on the digit when he seems to press too hard. "I'm going to shave you."

"What?" Arthur manages to get out before Emrys comes over and tilts his head back. "Have you ever shaved anyone before?"

"I won't cut you," Emrys says, rubbing Arthur's neck down with soap and water until a frothy foam forms. "As long as you stay still, I won't cut you."

"You're hardly filling me with confidence here," Arthur says, rolling his eyes. "And shouldn’t you take the collar off first?"

"Nice try," Emrys says, sliding the collar down and out of the way. "Now, shh, let me concentrate."

The blade deftly glides over Arthur's skin, and after a few passes, he's no longer worried that he's going to have his jugular sliced open. Emrys is quiet now, no humming or talking, his face stoic as he works. The only sound made is that of metal scraping against skin, and the whirl of the blade swinging through the air when Emrys shakes it off.

For some reason, the whole thing makes Arthur even more aroused, and his hands grip the sides of the tub so hard his knuckles turn white. He prays that it'll be over soon, because he doesn't know how much of this unconventional torture he can take.

"There," Emrys says, wiping the blade down with a cloth. "What do you think?"

Arthur lets out a shaky exhale and reaches up to rub against the now smooth skin of his jawline. "...You didn't nick me once. I'm impressed."

Emrys smiles brightly, like a child who has just been praised with a treat for his work. Well, in relation to Arthur, the comparison isn't that far off. "I'm going to do your chest next then."

"My chest?" Arthur echoes, grimacing. "Whatever for?"

"Maybe because I want to and you have no choice?" Emrys answers cheerfully, a devilish glint in his eyes. "I just managed to do your neck without cutting you once, why are you so worried about your chest?"

"I--" Arthur starts to protest, and then realizes Emrys has a good point. "...Shut up."

Emrys snickers, and then generously lathers Arthur's chest, his fingers tracing the lines of pectoral muscles tensing under the skin. And oh god, if Arthur thought having his neck shaved was bad, it's nothing compared to this. He tries not to squirm as the blade makes a sweep around his nipple, hardening in response to the chilled air and nothing else. At least, that's what he tells himself.

[ ](http://ic.pics.livejournal.com/fuckyeah/1173928/401631/401631_original.jpg)

Arthur almost completely loses it when Emrys leans over him for a better angle, his hot breath blowing against Arthur's wet skin. Arthur groans, and Emrys backs away immediately, giving him a curious look. "What? I didn't hurt you, did I?"

"No, no," Arthur breathes. Maybe if he finds a distraction, he won't be so affected, so he spits out the first thing that comes to mind: "...Earlier, Gaius called you 'Merlin.' Why?"

"Oh, that." Emrys smiles softly as he returns to his work. "That's because my name is Merlin."

"Merlin?" Arthur frowns, confused. "But I thought you were called Emrys."

"That is what the Druids call me, but it's not my name." Emrys says, shrugging his shoulders. "You can call me whichever one you'd like."

Arthur quickly determines that 'Merlin' fits the gangly, smart-mouthed boy in front of him much better than 'Emrys' does. There's something about instinctual about the preference that he can't quite explain, like he's heard the name somewhere a long time ago. "So, _Merlin_ , you keep saying 'the Druids' as if you're not one of them."

"Oh, well..." Merlin ducks his head shyly. "Er, that’s because I'm not."

"What?" Arthur exclaims, staring in disbelief. "How can you be their leader if you're not a Druid yourself?"

"Arthur, stop moving," Merlin says, bracing a palm against Arthur's collarbone as he continues to shave. "I’m not one, but they took me in when I was very young. The truth is, there's been a prophecy among the Druids for a long time, foretelling the man who will be responsible for bringing magic back to the land."

Like Arthur will ever let that happen; the only way magic will be allowed to return is if it's over his cold, dead body. "Let me guess," he says, tone mocking, "they think that man is supposed to be you?"

"...You have no idea, do you?" Merlin asks, his gaze piercing. For a split second, he looks older than his years, and appears almost...well, wise. "I'm supposed to play a part in it, yes."

Arthur can't shake the feeling that he's failed some sort of test. It bothers him, but he can't put his finger on why he cares so much. "So," he says, rapidly changing the subject, "because Gaius isn't a Druid, that's why he calls you Merlin?"

Merlin nods as he moves around the tub, switching to the other side of Arthur's chest. "That, and because he's my uncle. He and my mother are the only ones who still call me that." He pauses, and then adds with a smile, "Oh, and Freya too, of course."

Jealousy rears its ugly head inside Arthur. Other than his father, he has no one else to really call family. Not any more. He's grown used to the loneliness by now, but all throughout his childhood he wished he could experience a mother's touch, just once. "What about your father?"

The blade suddenly stills, and Arthur winces when he can feel it being pressed deeper into his skin. Not enough to draw blood, but just enough to sting, a sharp reminder of how deadly it could be.

It’s placed right over the spot where his heart is pounding against the bars of his ribcage.

"I think," Merlin says coldly, "you'll have to ask your own father about that."

Arthur gasps at the intense hatred burning in Merlin’s eyes. It’s the first time since he’s been captured that Arthur’s truly felt fear, until he realizes Merlin’s anger is not being directed towards him, but towards Arthur's father. 

In fact, Arthur has no doubt that, were Uther sitting in his place right now, the blade would have been plunged deep within the King of Camelot’s heart already. Multiple times.

Before Arthur can ask what exactly happened, Merlin blinks, his face growing pale and tired. "Sorry," he mumbles, wiping Arthur’s chest down with a washcloth. "It’s getting late, so I think that’s enough for tonight. I’ll have a pallet made up for you, as well as new clothes for you to wear."

Arthur is quickly starting to learn when it’s best not to argue. 

*

"Arthur, wake up."

Arthur jolts awake, and then groans, burying his head under the scratchy wool blanket. It's much too early for it to be morning already, or maybe it just seems that way because he didn't get much sleep. Not only had his erection refused to go away until he sat long enough in the bath that the water turned cold, but the ridiculous breechcloth Merlin made him wear took some time and effort to get used to.

"It's this or nothing," Merlin had said, his lips curling suggestively as he held the offending garment forward.

"Don't see that much of a difference," Arthur had grumbled, but went with the option that left him with the most dignity in the end. Though, not by much, especially if the amusement in Merlin's face had been anything to go by.

"Arthur," Merlin says again, and Arthur sighs. He pops his head from underneath the covers, blinking until his eyes adjust to the darkness. He can barely make out the fuzzy outline of a person kneeling down by his pallet. "Murrrlin?" he drawls, sluggishly, like he's swallowed a mouthful of sand. "Why are you..."

"Get up," Merlin says, tugging the blankets off of Arthur. "Sorry, but this is important."

The urgency in Merlin's voice brings Arthur to full consciousness. He instinctively reaches for his sword, until he remembers: one, he's been stripped of all weapons, and two, if someone is attacking the camp, it's most likely his father staging a rescue. "What's happening?"

"A birth," Merlin says, awed. He makes it sound as if it's the most amazing thing in the world. "Gaius says it's almost time. Alice is with the mother now, but we need to hurry."

"A birth," Arthur repeats flatly. "And we need to go because...?"

"Come on," Merlin says, ignoring the question as he heads outside.

As they walk briskly through the camp, Arthur notices that it's not even close to dawn. The only light they have to guide them is the night torches that have yet to burn out. Arthur stumbles on a gnarled tree root once or twice, but doesn't feel as foolish when Merlin practically faceplants over a tent peg.

"Walk much, Merlin?" Arthur asks, rolling his eyes, even as he helps Merlin to his feet. Merlin laughs, sheepishly dusting himself off before they continue on their way.

Only later does Arthur realize he willingly helped instead of being forced into action. He shakes his head, cursing himself for losing sight of the situation. Merlin is nothing like he expected, and maybe if their fates were different, they could be amiable towards each other, perhaps even friends. But as it stands, Merlin is the enemy, and Arthur can't let himself forget that. Not even for a second.

The tent where the birth is taking place is easy to find; there are two men standing outside of it, looking nervous, especially as the cries of a woman in pain grow louder. The two must be siblings, Arthur determines, for they both have the same coloring and similar facial features. They look up when Merlin arrives, nodding in greeting when he calls out to them in the Druidic language. Arthur doesn't understand a word being said in the conversation that followed afterwards, but judging on the curious looks sent his way, he bets he's being mentioned once or twice.

All talking ceases when Gaius emerges from the tent, his hands speckled with blood. "Go on then," he says to the men, jerking his head in the direction of the tent. "She wants your help for this last part."

The two men scramble inside with Gaius following behind, leaving Arthur and Merlin to wait outside. Merlin mutters something along the lines of "we might as well as get comfortable," and then plops down on the ground, sitting cross-legged.

"Which of them is supposed to be the father?" Arthur asks, bewildered. Back in Camelot, it's almost unheard of for anyone besides the midwife to be present with the mother, let alone unrelated men.

Merlin idly snaps off a few blades of grass and holds each one to his lips, blowing against them until he manages to produce a high, reedy whistle. "They both are."

"That's impossible," Arthur says, taking a seat next to Merlin. He picks up a piece of grass himself, twirling it through his fingers. He fondly remembers how, as a young child, he would spend hours making toys and jewelry from the materials nature provided. But that was many summers ago, and the skill to make daisy chains and straw men has long been pushed aside in his memory to make room for more important abilities, such as hunting and swordfighting.

"Ever since their parents died, Gilli and Daegal have shared anything together," Merlin says, smiling softly. "Why should their love for Sefa be any different?"

Arthur frowns. "I don’t understand. Surely you’re not suggesting..."

Merlin sighs. "They can't tell who it is for sure," he says patronizingly, as if he's explaining a simple concept to an even simpler child. "So they've both decided to be the father."

"What? Don’t be ridiculous, Merlin," Arthur scoffs, rolling his eyes at such a naive notion. "That child is going to be no better than a bastard, no matter how many people claim to be its father."

The blade of grass falls from Merlin’s hands mid-whistle, and he turns towards Arthur, his jaw clenching. "...Gods, you really are an ass, aren’t you?"

" _Excuse me_?" Arthur blinks, his mouth hanging open in disbelief. "What did you just call me?"

"You heard me." Merlin huffs. "Do you think that people should be judged differently, just because of the circumstances of their birth? That a child should be branded with horrible names the rest of his life, not because of what he does, but because he’ll have three loving parents? Because you're _wrong_. Every life on this earth is precious and meaningful." He pauses, and stares Arthur right in the eyes. "...Including yours, Arthur."

The wail of a newborn child rings out, cutting off any response Arthur may have had. Merlin leaps to his feet just as Gaius comes out, looking tired but satisfied. "It’s a healthy baby boy. There was a lot of blood, but both mother and child are currently doing fine."

"Are they ready for me then?" Merlin asks quietly, brushing off any remaining grass lingering on his skin. Gaius nods, and holds the tent flap open wide enough for them to enter.

"Arthur," Merlin says, gesturing for Arthur to follow, "come and see this."

The air inside the tent reeks of blood and other bodily fluids, and sheets that are probably ruined forever lay in a pile on the floor, the casualties of a long and difficult labor. There’s a young woman that Arthur guesses is Sefa, lying supine on a cot. She looks exhausted and is covered in a sheen of sweat, but she's smiling as she cuddles a swaddled bundle to her chest. The two men from earlier, Gilli and Daegal, are positioned on each side of her, and every now and then they kiss her brow, murmuring tenderly as they caress their child.

Arthur averts his eyes, cheeks burning. He can head into a fight without batting an eye, but a touching scene like this makes him unbelievably nervous. It drudges up dangerous thoughts that are best left to the dark recesses of his mind, like whether or not his own mother ever got to hold him, or if she died before she even had the chance to see his face.

An older woman stands off to the side, gathering up supplies and wiping off her hands with a rag. Like Gaius, she doesn't wear the traditional Druid garb, but a plain linen dress and shawl instead, her graying hair pulled back into a messy braid.

"She did quite well for her first pregnancy," the woman says proudly. "She's lucky she's still young."

"That, and she has a midwife like you, Alice," Merlin says, giving the woman a hug. "You and Gaius make a great team, as always."

Alice blushes and pats Merlin on the back. "It was mostly your uncle. He tells me what to do, and I listen."

"Don't sell yourself short, m'dear," Gaius says, pecking Alice on the cheek. "Your memory is much better than mine when it comes to healing spells."

The three of them laugh together, the sound soft and jovial, and Arthur begins to understand why he's here. Maybe this has been Merlin's plan all along, to show Arthur an aspect of the Draig clan that not many get to see. Already Arthur is doubting his preconceived notions; though they're considered Camelot's enemy-- _his_ enemy--Arthur's starting to see the Druids as people, with family, friends, and lives of their own.

But then an alarming thought worms its way into his subconscious: if the Druids aren't bloodthirsty mindless degenerates like he first thought, how many other things drilled into his head over the years are wrong?

"What are you doing?" He asks when he sees Merlin go over and take the baby into his arms.

"Giving him a blessing," Merlin says, tone soothing as he rocks the baby gently. "For a long and happy life."

A stream of words pours from Merlin’s mouth, his voice rough and lower than its usual pitch, and there's a brief flash of gold in his eyes before they return to their normal blue. Merlin then smiles, bright and carefree, as he hands the squirming infant back to its grateful parents.

The whole thing sends a shiver down Arthur's spine. But he doesn't know if it's the sight of magic used so freely that makes his gut clench, or something else he can't quite name just yet.

By the time Arthur and Merlin leave the tent, the first tendrils of dawn are streaking across the sky. Merlin yawns loudly, stretching his arms high above his head as he walks, a dopey grin plastered to his face. "So, what did you think?"

"About what?" Arthur asks, rubbing the sleep out of his sore and tired eyes. "I’m not a mindreader, Merlin."

"No, but you’re also not _that_ stupid, either," Merlin says. "Do you still think the three of them shouldn’t be together?"

Arthur pauses, thinks. On one hand, the relationship between Gilli, Daegal, and Sefa still seems immoral when written out on paper. But then he remembers their happy and serene expressions as they rested together, instinctively cocooning their child in their arms. And he can't find fault in that. "Perhaps I was wrong. The fact that they're both going to provide for the child is admirable."

It’s not a full apology, but it seems to appease Merlin. He hums in agreement and places his hands against the back of his head, beaming in Arthur’s direction. 

"...Well then, _sire_ ," he says. "It seems there’s some hope for you after all."

*

If Arthur was expecting to be freed any time soon, he’s shortly disappointed. It feels like he has rested his eyes for just a second, only to open them again and see nearly a fortnight has already passed.

He knows that his father has to be tearing apart the countryside searching for him. Arthur is the Crown Prince after all, the sole heir of Camelot, and even if he's far from being a defenseless child any more, Uther would do almost anything to save his son. But the Draig clan are masters of hiding themselves in plain sight, let alone in wooded areas, and will move whenever they think they've been in one spot for too long. Judging by the position of the stars, Arthur guesses they may have set up camp in the outlying regions of Cenred's land. Which means any sign of troops crossing over or even near the border would be considered an open declaration of war, something Camelot really can’t afford.

Meanwhile, Arthur is determined to learn everything about the Druids. He tells himself it's because he wants to know his enemy better, but really it's his curiosity and capacity to observe that drives him forward. For the first few days, the Druids would just stare at him as he walked with Merlin through camp, shirking away with fear and anger in their eyes whenever he came closer. He wanted to know why they were so afraid of a captured and unarmed man, bound to a magical master. But apparently, knowledge of his father's hatred for the Druids has spread far and wide, and in turn that animosity has been linked to him. 

In the past, Arthur might have been proud of this, perhaps even used it to his advantage. But now, he feels like a social pariah, scorned and _wrong_.

It's the children who finally break the ice. They begin to follow him around camp, running away at first when he tries to speak to them. But eventually they warm up to him, making him daisy crowns to wear in his hair and teaching him a few words in the Druidic language. Arthur soon learns how to say "yes," "no," "hello," "food," "drink," "toy," "play," and--because Merlin insists--"thank you."

Before long, everyone begins to engage Arthur in conversation, with Merlin rapidly translating for both sides when needed. Arthur discovers that not all Druids have magic like he first thought, but only a select and privileged few. The Draig clan is unique in that some aren’t even Druids but refugees, like Alice and Gaius, cast out by Camelot and its allies because of their support of magic. They're fierce warriors, that's for certain; after seeing them fight on the battlefield, Arthur can personally attest to that. But they are also farmers, herders, cooks, seamstresses, merchants, and crafters. Everyone pitches in to do their share, with an equal amount of work distributed evenly amongst them.

It's why Arthur is put into the position of herder one day, when the person who normally takes care of the goats comes down with a slight fever. Arthur protests, saying he's the Crown Prince, and he shouldn't be forced into menial labor. Merlin responds by telling him if he thinks he's too good for said menial labor, then he's too good to eat and drink the meals he's being given each day.

"...Unless," Merlin says, "it's too much for you to handle. I understand if being coddled as a prince has made you a bit...soft."

"Soft?" Arthur exclaims, instantly defensive. "Please, Merlin, how hard could watching a couple of goats be?"

Of course, just as he says that, one of the billies decides to ram him from behind, toppling him over. The whole herd takes turns licking his hair while he's down until it stands up on all ends, and Merlin doesn't stop laughing for a good five minutes afterwards.

They still argue and bicker constantly. But over the time it's become mostly light-hearted banter, with them trading insults almost fondly. Once, Merlin calls him a dollop-head, and Arthur teases him relentlessly that it's not a real word.

"It is too," Merlin says, struggling to keep a straight face.

"Oh yeah?" Arthur knocks into Merlin's shoulder playfully as they work side by side, tilling the fields in preparation for planting. "Go on then, what does it mean?"

"Two words?" A pause, and then Merlin grins as he says, "Prince Arthur."

Arthur has to cough in order to cover up his chuckle, and he tries to act offended. But judging by the amused look in Merlin's eyes, he's not fooling anyone.

Merlin still has to use a command on Arthur's collar every once in awhile, just to get him to listen. Arthur grits his teeth and bears it each time, but a dark, shameful part of him admits he's starting to actually enjoy it. It's the first time in his life that he's felt so powerless, stripped of responsibility and title, and it's such an unique feeling that he craves more. Whenever he's forced to kneel at Merlin's feet, the humiliation coursing through his veins fuels a fire of need burning deep inside his belly.

The thing is, other than the fateful night with the bath, Merlin hasn't really shown interest in Arthur fulfilling supposed duties as a pleasure slave. There's the idle brushes against Arthur’s arm that send a jolt down his spine, the soft smiles that Merlin gives when he's pleased by something Arthur's done. Sometimes, Arthur will even catch Merlin staring, with such obvious want and desire, that it seems to go right to Arthur's cock.

But every evening when they go to sleep, Merlin never calls Arthur to his bed. And as Arthur curls up on his own pallet, he ponders over the reason for his disappointment. Maybe he's been bewitched as a side-effect of the collar, or in some twisted sense, considers it some sort of slight against his ego. Or it could simply be that, because it's been so long since Arthur's vented his sexual frustration, it's just built up until he's willing for any sort of release. 

Even if that release is Merlin.

*

It all comes to a head a few days later, when there's a flurry of commotion throughout the camp. Arthur allows himself hope of rescue for a brief moment before he realizes the clan is preparing for a celebration, not a battle. Various pots and pans emit a mouthwatering aroma in the air as they boil over the campfires, and an impressive wild boar is carefully being turned on a spit. Men hack away at limbs of fallen wood, stripping the bark to use it as fastening for crudely constructed tables and chairs. People scurry about, pushing past him and talking animatedly with each other while their arms are full of supplies.

"What's going on?" Arthur asks, watching as garlands made from flowers are thrown over the low boughs of nearby trees. "What are they doing?"

"It's Beltane," Merlin says. "Everyone is preparing for tonight's feast to celebrate the arrival of summer."

 _Beltane_. It's hard to believe so much time has already passed since Arthur was captured. He thinks back to last year's celebration in Camelot, eating roast venison and drinking mulled wine with his father and the rest of his men. There's a pang of homesickness in his belly, and he averts his gaze from the merrymaking, blaming the smoke carried in the wind for the sudden stinging in his eyes.

If Merlin notices, he doesn't say anything about it. Instead his fingers grip Arthur's elbow gently and tug him forward. "Come on. We need to get ready as well."

Apparently, getting ready involves Arthur taking another bath. For a people that are supposed to be "wallowing in their own filth" as his father is wont to say, the Draig clan seemed to bathe more often than most people outside of royalty. But then again, if most of the work is taken away by the use of magic, even the most arduous tasks could be made accessible to the every man. He ponders this as the tub is filled, and finds he doesn't flinch any more when magic is used in his presence.

He settles down in the water and begins to relax, only to stiffen in surprise when Merlin slides into the spot across from him. "Merlin!" Arthur sputters."What do you think you're doing?"

"I think that should be obvious, _sire_ ," Merlin says, taking a cloth and wetting it. "There's no sense of us wasting water when we can share a bath, is there?"

Arthur disagrees. He can think of plenty good reasons why this is a bad idea. For one, the tub is cramped enough with one person in it, let alone two. Merlin is slighter of build than Arthur, but just as tall, if not an inch or so taller, which means they're nearly in each other's laps. No amount of shifting would prevent their knees from knocking together, and Arthur soon becomes acutely aware of areas where Merlin's body is pressed against his.

That's the other problem. Because while he's grown used to Merlin's nudity to point where he doesn't bat an eye at it any more, this situation feels more intimate. Maybe it's the close proximity with the combination of bare flesh, or the way Arthur's attention is drawn to the pink flush of Merlin's skin. Either way, this is a very, very, _very_ bad idea.

"I don't care," Arthur says when he realizes the silence has dragged on long enough. "As long as you don't try to shave me again."

Merlin laughs, and splashes water at him. It smells faintly of the oils and lavender they added earlier, meant to soothe sore muscles and soften skin, making one's body pliant and smooth. "You liked it."

Arthur snorts. "Hardly. I still don't know why you insisted on such a ridiculous thing." He grins as he leans forward, his finger hovering over Merlin's chest. "Is it jealousy? Because I have to say Merlin, this is the saddest display of chest hair that I have ever--"

A jolt of energy ripples through them when Arthur's finger makes contact with Merlin's wet skin, causing the both of them to jump. The rest of Arthur's words remain unspoken as he stares down, quietly replacing the lone finger with his whole hand. He feels Merlin take in a long, shuddery breath, his rib cage rising and falling rapidly under Arthur's touch, his heart beating faster with each passing second. Or maybe that's Arthur's own heart, pounding in between his ears as he drags his hand forward, trailing his fingers over Merlin's collarbones.

It shouldn't be sensual. Arthur's seen plenty of bare male chests before, even touched a few of them. For purely technical reasons of course; there's been times where he helped tend to his knights' wounds when there was no healer present. He has always thought that a man's chest wasn't that much of erogenous zone, not when compared to that of a woman's. But judging by the soft gasps Merlin is letting out, it seems to be another thing Arthur thought he knew is completely wrong.

"Arthur," Merlin all but moans, and it's enough to snap Arthur back to his senses. He jerks his hand away as if he has been burned, silently cursing the collar around his neck once again. His actions are not his own, he assures himself. It's this damn enchantment Merlin has over him that willed Arthur's hand to move.

 _But he didn't say any command_ , a voice in the deep recesses of Arthur's mind says. _And if he wanted you to touch him, why does he look so surprised that you did?_

It's true. Merlin refuses to look Arthur in the eyes now, and the blush in his cheeks is no longer from the hot water. He scrubs himself hastily with a renewed vigor, tossing the scrub cloth in Arthur's direction as he lifts himself out of the tub. "Hurry up and bathe, Arthur. You still need to be painted."

"'Painted'?" Arthur repeats as he washes himself quickly. He tries not to think how empty the tub feels now that Merlin is not in it. "What do you mean 'painted'?"

"It's part of a ritual for Beltane. The Druids paint symbols onto their skin, sort of like protection charms and to give thanks to the gods." Merlin grabs a small inkpot from the table and stirs it, adding water to get the right consistency. "Unless, you want something more permanent..."

"No, definitely not." Arthur thinks about the multitude of tattoos Merlin has and how long they must have taken, how old he must have been when he started. The idea of someone willingly stabbing themselves with needles seems pointless to Arthur, but he has to admire the pain and preservation one has to go through for what they believe in. "I don't care if it's temporary, I don't want to be a part of any sort of ritual."

"As the guest of honor, you don't have a choice." Merlin chuckles, stopping his work to hand Arthur a towel. "Come on then, dry off already so we can begin."

"What is the point of me bathing if I'm just going to get dirty again with paint?" Arthur grumbles once he's dried off and dressed in a fresh breechcloth. This one seems to leave less to the imagination than its predecessor, but at least the freshly oiled suede doesn't chafe against his skin. "Do you even have a single artistic bone in your body, Merlin?"

"Shh, I'm trying to think of the symbol that means 'gigantic prat,'" Merlin says, dipping a horsehair brush into the ink. "Now close your eyes and hold still until I tell you I'm done."

Arthur startles at the first touch of the brush as it swirls around his skin. It moves in short and rapid swipes, and then with long, fluid strokes, always in constant motion. He wants to watch, curious about what sort of things Merlin is imparting. But his eyes remain closed as instructed, and instead he relies on his other senses. He smells the bitter scent of fresh ink, hears the brush scraping against the lip of the pot, feels Merlin steadying himself by digging his fingers into Arthur's thigh.

It's enough to drive a man crazy. Arthur's traitorous body responds to it all, and his cock starts to harden and swell. He struggles to will his erection away before Merlin notices, and recalls every dry and stuffy lecture on literature the Camelot librarian, Geoffrey, has given him over the years. And when that doesn't help deflate his desire fast enough, he imagines the ancient curmudgeon himself, sprawled out on his precious books, naked.

But before Arthur can torture himself further with any more horrifying mental images, the brush stops and lifts up. "There, that should do it," he hears Merlin say. "Go ahead and look if you want, but don't touch just yet or they might smudge."

Arthur blinks his eyes open and looks down at himself, not knowing what to expect. The first thing he notices is that while he's not covered head to toe, Merlin painted a lot more than Arthur realized. There are symbols and runes left up and down his arms and legs, and he's shocked when he recognizes a few of them. Some of his men have trinkets inscribed with the same characters and labeled them as tokens of good luck and fortune. No wonder they tend look guilty and hide them away whenever Arthur is around; he always thought they were ashamed to admit they had doubts about their safe return.

There's also the triskelion that all Druids to seem to have, situated in the middle of Arthur's right bicep. Arthur frowns, but then finds he's not as bothered by it as he thought he'd be. He's just thankful it's not placed in a prominent place; he's seen those with it on their hands or the face, and he knows depending where it's located on the body is supposed to mean different things. But he hasn't figured out the system behind the idea just yet.

The biggest piece stretches over the spot above his heart. It's been done with an amateur hand, in midnight black versus the traditional gold, but there's no denying what the figure is supposed to be.

It's a dragon. _His_ dragon.

Arthur gapes down at his family crest, proudly displayed on his chest like a badge of honor. His fingers shake as they hover over the wings, but remembering Merlin's words at the last minute, he cups his hand over the image protectively. He opens his mouth to say thank you, something, anything, but words fail him. Instead he stares at Merlin with a mixture of gratitude and disbelief, hoping that will be enough.

It is, if Merlin's nod and small smile is anything to go by. "Where you come from is an important part of who you are, Arthur," he says softly, putting the ink and brush back on the table. "I'll never deny you that."

Arthur squeezes his eyes shut, not wanting to get emotional over something so simple. He knows Merlin is speaking the truth. He just doesn't know why.

Merlin is like water, Arthur decides. Deceptively calm and unassuming on the surface, but with a strong undercurrent that could pull a man down if one wasn't careful. He's continuously changing, disorienting in his words and actions, and Arthur's afraid he's already been sucked in despite paddling like a madman.

Fingertips brush gently against the skin below Arthur's navel, and he jolts from his thoughts. He peers down at Merlin, who is tracing the outline of another figure he's painted onto Arthur's skin. It's hard to make out at first (since Arthur is looking at it upside down), but he can tell it's a flying creature of some kind, a bird of prey, a-- "Did you put a _merlin_ on me?"

"Took you long enough to notice," Merlin says, his low laughter rolling over in waves. He continues to admire his handiwork, and then leans forward to whisper in Arthur's ear: "I simply marked what is _mine_."

[ ](http://ic.pics.livejournal.com/fuckyeah/1173928/402659/402659_original.jpg)

_Yours_ , Arthur automatically thinks before he can truly consider the implication. No, no no no; he was so determined not to let whatever... _this_ is between him and Merlin cloud his judgment. He wants to protest that he belongs to no man, but he can’t. It would just be a feeble attempt at rebelling just to rebel, and he discovers he doesn’t want to, that the fight is not in him. Not any more.

"... _Arthur_..." Merlin says with a breathy sigh, and Arthur feels as if the syllables of his name are being etched into his skin as well, but in an ink only he and Merlin knows is there. Forget collars and tattoos, this is how Merlin claims Arthur as his own.

The moment is shattered a few seconds later when Freya enters the tent unannounced. Her step falters when she notices the scene in front of her, and the color of her cheeks turns a bright pink. Arthur can only guess what sort of situation she assumes she walked into, and the thing is, she wouldn't be that far off the mark. 

"I’m sorry if I’m interrupting anything," Freya says, ducking her head so strands of hair fall into her face. "But I'm supposed to let you know that they’re calling for you at the festival." She pauses and then looks up, giving Arthur a small smile. "Both of you."

"...Thank you Freya," Merlin says. "We'll be there shortly."

She nods, and then exits, leaving the two of them alone once more. Awkward silence hungrily fills the gap where she stood, growing and spreading until the inside of the tent feels almost smothering. Thoughts whirl through Arthur's head, a complex cycle with no current conclusions, a litany of "whys" and "why nots." He's torn between what he should do now and what he wants--oh, how he _wants_ \--and how they could ever equal up to be the exact same thing.

But too much time passes, and the chance to spring into action is quickly lost. Merlin finally removes his fingers from Arthur’s body, their absence sorely felt. 

"Well, are you coming?" he asks, and jerks his head towards the outside with a secret smile. "Wouldn’t want you to miss out on all of the fun."

*

Despite the previous mention of rituals and tattoos, at first glance the Druids’ version of Beltane celebrations don’t seem to different much than the ones held back in Camelot. Lively music and raucous laughter ring out above the heads of the festival goers, weaving together to form a constant hum of joyous revelry. Both young and old sing, dance, or clap happily around the bonfires, while others retell stories that have been passed down from generation to generation to an enraptured audience. 

The second Arthur steps outside the tent, children swarm him from all sides. At their repeated insistence, he begrudgingly lets himself be tugged toward the May Pole and is forced to join in. In the end, he wins this year's title of "May King" for his efforts, along with a crown painstakingly fabricated out of dried flowers and colorful ribbons. The whole thing is ridiculous and makes him feel like a damn fool, but he has to admit, it's the most fun he's had in years.

And then there’s the food. Although the feast is simpler and less extravagant than what Arthur is used to, it’s still enough to make his mouth water. The flow of drinks available seems never ending, ranging from frothy mugs of sweetened goat’s milk to flagons of summer wine laced with honey. There’s nary a trencher not filled to the brim with heaping servings of delectable food; spitted pork roasted so carefully the tender meat slips off the bones, sage chicken swimming in a savoury leek and mushroom gravy baked inside a thick, hard ground-wheat crust, and smooth creamy yellow cheeses aged to perfection are just a few of the many selections offered. Before long, there’s slackening of many a breechcloth in order to make room for more.

Arthur is an outsider to all of this, but is never treated like one. Every time he turns around, there seems to be someone clapping an amiable hand on his back or greeting him with a genuine smile. It’s a far cry from the icy welcoming he received just a few weeks before, and it humbles him greatly.

Food, drinks, and other wares are thrust into his hands for him to try, and as he takes a bite of some dessert concoction, the sweet and sticky juice of freshly picked wild berries mingling with clotted cream on his tongue, he thinks he could maybe get used to this. Because while he’s technically still a prisoner, he’s never felt as free from pressure and responsibilities in his entire life as he does now.

However, the lighthearted mood of the festivities shifts once the sun dips below the horizon. Sleepy children are shepherded off to the privacy of their tents, and some of the more elder of the clan members say their goodnights as they retire for the evening. The people that stay behind begin to buzz about with an anxious energy, clearing away empty dishes and plates to be washed at the nearby riverbanks come morning. Others sweep the ground clean of any lingering debri before they throw down woven blankets and large cushions, arranging them into a circle around the fires. Arthur wrinkles his nose when the heady scent of burning herbs hits his nostrils, and although he has a suspicion of they're preparing for the ritual Merlin spoke of, he asks the question all the same. "What now?"

Merlin just smiles, and leads him to one of the pallets that’s been prepared. As soon as they’re seated, they’re handed goblets that slosh with a dark, crimson liquid. Arthur sniffs it warily before taking a tentative sip, and almost chokes as the rich and heavy alcohol burns his throat on the way down. Just one serving is enough for a man to take leave of his senses, but as he watches everyone else imbibe freely, including Merlin, Arthur concedes that it may be the point. 

A handful of young men, bolstered on by liquid courage, start to take running leaps over the still burning flames. With each and every successful pass, the crowd cheers, shouting their approval and congratulations.

"It’s supposed to be a way to display their bravery," Merlin explains when he notices the confused expression on Arthur’s face. "And to grant them luck for the upcoming year."

Arthur snorts and rolls his eyes. "It's a way to yourself killed is more like it. Though if you manage to jump over a fire without singeing anything vital, I guess you can consider yourself rather lucky after all."

Merlin laughs at that a little too longer (and louder) than necessary. Already the tell-tale flush from the alcohol has begun to spread from his face down to his collarbones, and the smile he wears is more dopey than usual. It seems he might be a bit of a lightweight when it comes to drinking.

Arthur isn’t the least bit surprised. "I should have known you can't handle your liquor, _Merlin_ " he teases, sipping his own drink slowly so it doesn't rush to his head. Years of experience have taught him that it’s always best to always keep one’s wits about oneself, no matter the situation. "Are you even old enough to be drinking? Perhaps you should be in bed too, asleep like all the other good little children."

Pouting like a petulant toddler, Merlin takes another swig of his drink. "’m not a child," he mumbles into his cup. "'m old enough."

"Oh really?" Arthur raises an eyebrow, unable to keep his grin in check. He's discovered one of the his favorite things to do is to goad Merlin on, to push and test the boundary between them to just below the breaking point. "Just how old are you anyway?"

Merlin lets out an injured sniff. "I'll turn nineteen around Samhain, if it matters so much to you."

Arthur stiffens. That means Merlin is eighteen now. _Eighteen_. Arthur has never felt the past thirty winters under his belt as keenly as he does at this very moment. He knew Merlin was young, but has never realized the actual expanse of years between them. More importantly, it means Arthur’s life is held in the hands of someone nearly half his own age.

But wait, that doesn't add up--Arthur's father has been at war with magic users and the Druids ever since Arthur was born, and rumors of the Draig clan being led by Emrys started swirling through the countryside at least seven years ago, if not longer. Arthur doesn't understand how that could be possible, until the answer comes to him, gradually: the wisdom Merlin seems to possess at times could possibly come from having responsibility thrust on one's shoulders at a young age. Arthur can easily imagine Merlin, barely out from underneath his mother's skirts, being told that he was prophesied to lead a great magical army. That he would have to fill the huge position destiny apparently laid out for him.

It's so easy for Arthur to imagine this because he was raised in a similar fashion. Trained to kill since birth, what little childhood he had was snatched away when his father began to mold him into the perfect definition of the Crown Prince. He remembers being privy to war plans since he was nine years old, and given his own small squadron of men when he was only fourteen. He remembers the pride he felt when his father congratulated him at winning his first tournament--against knights many seasons his senior--at eighteen, the same age Merlin is now.

Merlin is no seasoned warrior, that much is certain. But it’s clear to see that he is a fighter of some sort. Or at least had to become one to survive this long.

Before Arthur can dwell on such thoughts for any longer, his attention is suddenly pulled towards the center of the ring as music begins to play. Two figures--one male and one female, with complementing wavy black hair and bronze-kissed complexions--circle the fires carefully, the balls of their bare feet twisting in the dirt as they step to the beat. The mask the man wears resembles the Sun, made from rowan berries and gorn petals, while the woman dons one crafted from hawthorne flowers in the shape of the Moon. Their eyes and mouths are the only parts of their faces that remain uncovered, the reason becoming evident as they embrace each other and kiss.

"It’s starting," Merlin whispers before Arthur can even ask for an explanation. "They’re supposed to represent the Sun and the Moon, planning their consummation with the Earth for a long and fruitful summer."

"Wha--" is all Arthur manages to say before the tempo of the music increases in tempo and drowns out the rest of his words. A third figure emerges into play; another woman, with primroses and marsh marigolds fastened in the tresses of her dark brown hair. Her mask consists of the leaves and nuts of the hazel tree layered on top of one another, and her lips are stained a deep wine red. She presents her naked body to the crowd, her mouth curving into a sensuous smile when she sees she has their rapt attention, a glint in her olive eyes from out beneath the shadows of her mask.

Something about her conjures up snatches of Arthur’s earliest memories, dulled by the edge of time, of being on the receiving end of a similar expression and offered a soft, feminine hand. But every time he tries to recall more of the details, they skitter farther and farther away from him, back into the far recesses of his mind.

The other two figures in the circle head towards the woman immediately, trailing their fingertips along the lengths of her arms until each of their hands interlock with one of hers. They stand like that for a few seconds, huddled together, and then they tug her forwards to embrace her from either side. Their movements quickly grow bolder; the man playing the part of the Sun places his large hands onto her hips, locking her into place as the woman acting as the Moon cups and plays with the Earth’s full breasts. Even in the limited firelight, the Earth's arousal at being touched and caressed is impossible to miss. Her nipples harden into tight rosy buds, and her head is thrown back, pure delight written upon her face.

The rest of the clan watch the proceedings with a languid interest, their heavy-lidded eyes clouded from alcohol and desire. Some of them begin to idly stroke themselves, while others turn their focus towards their nearby partners. Hands forge pathways on sweaty skin that soon lips will follow, dashing along every curve of the human body. Soon the sounds of lovemaking couple with the notes of music, drowning out the nightly noises of nature as they fill the air.

Arthur gapes at the scene unfolding in front of him, unable to tear his gaze away. He knows he should; this is improper, indecent, and no doubt exactly how the Draig clan gained their reputation for carnal acts. Just because he hasn’t seen any solid examples of it (until now) doesn’t mean the rumors are without a grain of truth, and this just goes to show it.

But despite his shock and disgust, he feels his own body respond to the stimuli that surrounds him. His cock twitches and then swells in the pocket of his lap, straining the front of his breechcloth before he finally manages to avert his eyes from the provocative scene before him.

But then he makes the mistake of glancing in Merlin’s direction. Unlike the others, Merlin’s hands remain at his sides, balled into fists so tight his knuckles are a bloodless white. As he observes the dance with widened eyes, his white teeth provide a sharp contrast against the redness of his mouth as they sink into the flesh of his bottom lip. 

Automatically, Arthur's gaze drops lower, confirming that Merlin is just as aroused as everyone else. His hardened cock juts out and curves upwards, trembling, almost as if it's begging to be touched.

All in all, he makes a very, _very_ tempting picture. One that Arthur doesn’t think he can resist, not for much longer.

"What is this supposed to be, anyway?" he asks, attempting to take his mind off all he wants to do to Merlin if he would just let himself act on it. "Do you force people to perform for your pleasure, is that it?"

"W-What?" Merlin blinks repeatedly, as if he’s snapping out a trance, and his expression changes to one of horror once Arthur’s question clicks into place. "No! No, that’s not it it at all. Once you reach a certain age, you can choose to be a participant in the rituals, but only if you’re truly willing," he insists. "No one is forced."

Arthur finds that hard to swallow, especially as the Earth sinks down to her knees, wrapping her lips around the Sun’s erection. The Moon kneels down behind her, pressing lips against her shoulder while slicking up a leather phallus with oil. The Earth moans as the phallus is slowly pushed inside her, bobbing her head with the same speed as she shifts her hips, all while the Sun and Moon murmur encouraging words to her.

"You’re trying to tell me she chose to be a part of all that?" Arthur asks, gesturing blindly. "To be used as a some part of a show?"

"Do you think your society, where daughters are bartered like livestock, would be so much better for her?" Merlin asks, scowling. "Despite what you may think, this is a sacred ritual, and a natural way to help this clan survive when its numbers dwindle by the day. Of all the people here, as a High Priestess she knows the importance of this. She chose to perform with ones she loves and cares for, and that she feels safe with. If she hadn’t escaped from her kingdom when she was a young girl, she would have probably been married off against her own will, if she wasn’t persecuted for her magic first. Now, you tell me, how is that more justified and honorable than what’s happening here?"

Arthur really doesn’t have an answer to that, but he’s not about to admit that Merlin has a good point so easily. "You say no one is forced, and yet you keep sex slaves," he mutters. He knows it’s a cheap method of retaliation, but judging by the guilt written on Merlin’s face, it’s at least an effective one. Arthur thought he would experience some sense of pride at getting the jab in, but all he feels is an aching pit of hollowness inside his stomach the moment the words leave his mouth. Bringing up the original reason why he’s here makes it seem like his entire relationship with Merlin is built entirely on a farce, and Arthur doesn’t think he can fully accept that, not anymore. Not when--

"...No, no we don’t."

Merlin’s response is so faint, Arthur almost misses it. "What was that?"

"I said, no we don’t." Merlin shakes his head to emphasize his point. "No one here has ever kept sex slaves, or any type of slaves for that matter. And probably never will."

"Oh right," Arthur scoffs. "I guess I don't count then, or did you just conveniently forget about that?"

Merlin flinches. "...You are a lot of things to me, Arthur Pendragon," he says quietly, staring right into Arthur's eyes as he speaks, "but a sex slave was never one of them."

"But before, you said--"

"It was a joke. A stupid joke." The corners of Merlin's lips twitch upwards to form a rueful smile. "You seemed so determined to think the worst of me, I didn't know how to tell you otherwise. Would you have even believed me if I did?"

That would explain why Merlin never tried to initiate anything beyond heated glances and fleeting caresses. But what Arthur doesn’t understand is that if Merlin is indeed telling the truth--Arthur has no doubts about that; he’s learned that Merlin’s emotions can be read like an open book--then what does it mean for the two of them now? It doesn’t really change a thing, and yet it has the possibility to affect _everything_.

"No... No, I suppose not," Arthur says. He swallows deeply with an audible click. "But what exactly am I to you, then?"

Merlin doesn’t respond. Instead, he turns his gaze away, blood rushing to underneath his skin and inflaming his cheeks with heat. The flickering light from the fire dances across the contours of his face and highlights the swirling sparkles in his eyes. The rest of the world seems to fall away, breaking off piece by piece, until they are the only two survivors left in the void created just for them.

And Arthur thinks he has his answer.

Emboldened by this knowledge, the heavy wine, or maybe a combination of both, he places a closed hand against the side of Merlin’s face, tracing a thumb along his cheekbone. He gasps softly when Merlin kisses the tips of his fingers, and then flickers out his tongue to lick the inside of Arthur’s palm.

"Have you--" Arthur starts to ask if Merlin has done this sort of thing before, but then stops when he realizes how ridiculous the question sounds. "How many times?"

"Hrm?" Merlin mumbles between lowering his mouth to Arthur’s wrist and sucking at the pulse point, causing Arthur to shudder. "How many times what?"

"Have you participated in the rituals? Not just in the crowd, but..." Arthur angles his head towards the center of the circle. "Up there."

Just the thought of Merlin doing this with someone else makes a pang of jealousy spring up and sink its fangs into Arthur’s gut. He knows he has no right to feel this way, and doesn’t even know where such an overwhelming wave of possessiveness came from in the first place. But he’s still relieved when Merlin shakes his head and says, "Um, none."

"None?" 

"None," Merlin repeats, looking embarrassed by the admission. "You can only volunteer for a part in the ritual once you become of age. I never really had the chance to...participate with the others."

Arthur raises an eyebrow, and then laughs, long and hard, until his stomach starts to ache. The idea that, for all his talk, the possibility that Merlin might still be a virgin is more amusing than Arthur can bear. 

"It’s not that funny!" Merlin protests.

"No, it’s hilarious," Arthur says, still chuckling as he wipes a tear from his eye. "Would you even know the first thing to do with a sex slave if you had one?"

"You tell me," Merlin growls, and then surges forward to kiss him. 

It’s as clumsy and messy as to be expected from an apparent novice. But what Merlin lacks in experience, he compensates for by being earnest. His mouth is soft and yielding against Arthur’s own, and tastes heavily of the sweet wine, with an ashy hint of wood smoke from the campfire. His hands tighten and flex into balls as they rest against Arthur’s chest, fidgeting in a way that’s both unsure and confident at the same time, and uniquely Merlin.

It would be so easy to for Arthur to lose himself and give in, but reality suddenly comes crashing back around him. "Merlin, wait," he groans. He pulls away, his movements jerky and stiff, his body refusing to cooperate. "Stop. I don’t want--"

"Don’t you dare say you’re not interested when we both know you are," Merlin snaps, effectively cutting Arthur off. "I’ve seen plenty of examples to know the truth. I know how aroused you get around me when you think I don’t notice, how you stare at me when my back is turned. So tell me it’s your stupid sense of honor and my age that stops you, or the fact that I’m your father’s sworn enemy. But do not lie to my face and tell me you don’t want this."

Arthur opens and closes his mouth many times, trying to formulate an answer, but none are immediately forthcoming. "I..." he manages to croak out, "I _can’t_."

He knows that in a blink of an eye, he could be forced into a multitude of things against his will. Merlin has that much power over him; by just uttering a few simple words, he could control every movement Arthur makes, every sentence he says, every thought he thinks. It's like he’s back in the bathtub and being shaved all over again, waiting to see if this is the time the metaphorical blade will slip in between his ribs.

But Merlin doesn’t press the point any further. Instead he sighs, and then leans forward so that his head rests in the crook of Arthur’s right shoulder. 

"If you won’t allow this to happen between us," he whispers, his teeth grazing Arthur’s earlobe, "then at least touch yourself. _Please._ "

Even though he’s given a command, it’s really Merlin’s desperate "please" that spurs Arthur into action. He wastes no time in untucking himself from the now too tight breechcloth, hissing at the first contact of skin upon skin. His cock jerks eagerly in his grasp, palm still slightly damp from Merlin’s tongue, and he tentatively begins to stroke.

"Yes, that’s it," Merlin murmurs, his breathing hot and heavy against the side of Arthur's face. He wets his own palm with a broad stripe of his tongue, encircling his cock with firm fingers before echoing Arthur's rough, frenzied movements. Soon a pocket of heat and moisture forms as they work, trapped in between their sweat slicked bodies. 

It's better than Arthur ever imagined. He suspects it would have been perfect if he had just allowed Merlin to continue on from the kissing earlier, but this is enough to keep Arthur satisfied for now. These past few weeks of built up sexual frustration probably means he’s not going to last much longer anyway; already beads of pre-come dribble down from the tip of his cock, and he can feel his balls tighten up closer to his body in anticipation of his climax.

But it’s Merlin that gives him that extra and final push. "Come on, Arthur," he says, panting. "Come for me already."

For a split second, Arthur’s view of the world goes a hazy gray from the sheer force of his orgasm. He grunts as he strips his cock of every last drop of come, coating his and Merlin’s stomachs in a sticky, translucent white. He strokes and he strokes and he strokes, until he feels like he’s been wrung out to dry, his entire body left buzzing with over-sensitization to the slightest touch.

Merlin lets out a cry not long afterwards, and Arthur can feel a fresh wave of dampness splattering onto his skin.

Their shoulders slump from exertion, their bodies propped upright against each other. The only movement they make is their chests rising and falling in unison, taking in deep gulps of air back into their lungs.

Arthur waits for the panic over what’s just happened to kick in, but it never comes. Instead he feels strangely relaxed and content, like a cat lazing in the sun after being fed a dish of cream. In the back of his mind, he dimly recalls where they are and that they’re not alone, but even that isn’t enough to rouse any cause for alarm inside him. Whether it's because he's more intoxicated than he thought, or something else, he doesn't know.

"Huh," Merlin mumbles against the flushed skin that stretches across Arthur's collarbones. "Maybe having a sex slave wouldn't be such a bad idea after all."

Arthur snorts fondly, recognizing the comment for the joke that it is. He looks around and notices the fires have died down, the music silenced. The trio of performers are nowhere to be seen, and probably have gone off somewhere to retire for the night.

"Now what?" Arthur pokes Merlin in the side. "What happens next in this ritual of yours?"

"Now?" Merlin repeats, his words slurring as he yawns. "Now we sleep it off until morning."

"What?" Arthur asks. "Here?"

But Merlin doesn't answer. He tucks his long limbs inwardly towards his body until he's curled up in ball, draped halfway into Arthur's lap.

The sound of his soft snoring is the last thing Arthur hears before he too drifts off to sleep.

*

The next time Arthur opens his eyes, it's light outside, but just barely. The color of the sky is a cold and steely gray, and balls of fog roll through the woods, tightly hugging the dew dampened ground. There's a few inaudible conversations taking place to Arthur's left, and the gentle clanging of pots to his right as the cooks begin preparing breakfast around the campfires. But for the most part, it seems like rest of the world is locked away from the realm of consciousness for a little while longer.

There's a warm presence pressing into Arthur's side, and it takes him a second before he realizes it's Merlin. Their bodies have seemingly tangled together during the night, and to the unfocused gaze it would be hard to tell where one ends and another begins. Already Arthur feels himself respond to the proximity, and bites back a groan when he shifts and his cock rubs against Merlin's thigh.

Merlin himself remains unaware. He snuffles once or twice in his sleep, and buries his head further into their combined body heat. He looks every bit of his sixteen years when he's like this; any tension in his muscles has seeped out during the night, his features young, lax, and carefree.

Arthur catches himself smiling at the sight. He settles back on the pallet, and draws in closer the blanket that somebody has helpfully draped over them to fight off the early morning chill. His smile grows when he hears Merlin sigh happily in response.

Arthur can no longer deny he holds some degree of affection for Merlin. In the most unlikely of ways, the two of them have become friends, and (especially after the events of last night) perhaps even more. So, Arthur wonders, would it really be so bad if he gave into the feelings and urges that have been dogging him for days--no, _weeks_ now?

At first he resisted for a multitude of reasons: in the beginning, Merlin was nothing more than his enemy and captor. And when doubt formed and multiplied in the corners of Arthur’s mind, then it was the fact that he thought it wouldn't be prudent to engage in such a relationship. It was because he considered it detrimental to his honor, or that he could never be sure if his actions were his own, or it was never the right time--the list goes on and on. But no matter what excuse Arthur creates to cover up the truth, it's still going to be there, underneath it all. And maybe, _maybe_ , he should just finally learn to accept that rather than continuing to fight off the inevitable.

Merlin starts to stir, but it still takes some time before he fully wakes. First he stretches out his legs until his joints let out a satisfying pop and his toes curl against Arthur's. Then he scrubs a hand across his face and opens his eyes, blinking blearily. "Ughhh," he all but moans, draping an arm across his face. "Nooo, it can't be mornin’ yet."

Arthur chuckles. Feeling a bit merciless, he tugs Merlin's arm away and grins. "Does the great and powerful Emrys have a headache?"

Merlin moans again, followed by several muttered disparaging remarks, mostly about Arthur's character. "'m never drinkin' again."

He pauses, and then looks up at Arthur, studying him. But just when Arthur begins to feel antsy under the attention, Merlin says, "Last night... I didn't... I mean..." His Adam's apple bobs up and down as he swallows deeply. "I didn't force you into anything you didn't want, did I?"

"...It figures you would worry about something like that _now_ ," Arthur says, rolling his eyes. 

He knows it's not a real answer, but he doesn't know how else to respond. Saying yes would be a blatant lie, but saying no would be admitting something he came to terms with only a few minutes ago.

And he's just not ready for that. Not yet.

"But Arthur--"

There's a shout in the distance, followed by the sounding of the alarm. Instantly the entire camp springs to life. Children run to the safety of their parents' arms while some of the more elderly members peek out cautiously from their tents. Those able-bodied and willing to fight reach for their nearest weapons, readying their spears and bows in preparation for an attack.

Arthur jumps to his feet, and automatically places Merlin behind him. He would feel more at ease if he had a way to defend himself as well, but is confident enough that he can hold his own, even unarmed.

The crashing coming from the woods grows louder and louder, until a horse bursts through the treeline. It’s obviously worked itself up into a frenzy, judging by the foam frothing at its mouth and the sheen of sweat soaking its dappled bay coat. The reason for its distress is evident by what has been strapped to its back: the body of a man dangles down lifelessly, his face bloated and nearly unrecognizable as once being human. The frayed end of the rope noose around his broken neck acts like some sort of whip, flaying the horse's flank wildly.

"...Oh gods."

Arthur snaps his head around towards Merlin, who looks paler than a sheet.

"That's Matthew's horse," Merlin whispers, his face taking on a slight tinge of sickly green as he clamps a hand over his mouth. "I was wondering why we hadn’t heard anything back from him yet."

It takes five full grown men to surround the horse and calm it down. The moment the body is removed from its back, it tries to bolt, only to collapse to the ground a few feet away. Some attempt to make the animal comfortable and tend to its wounds, but it's a grim certainty that it will never recover from such an ordeal.

Gaius is quickly called to examine the body. After peering over it from head to toe, he wipes his hands on a clean rag, and then gives Merlin a curt nod. "It's him."

There's an unearthly wail from the crowd, and a woman rushes forward, falling to her knees by the body. Despite the man's decomposed appearance, she clings his head to her chest and rocks back and forth. It's a haunting sight, her sobbing of his name over and over continuing to ring out in the air even as the others pull her away from his corpse.

"Merlin," Gaius says, tugging Merlin off to the side. "A word with you, please."

Merlin hesitates, his eyes still locked on to the man and his grieving loved one, but then he finally wrenches his attention away. "What is it, Gaius?"

"I have reason to believe that he wasn't just hanged," Gaius says, keeping his voice low and out of earshot of the rest of the group. "The lesions and bruises on the rest of his body suggest he was treated rather harshly before he died."

The acidic twang of bile hits the back of Arthur's throat. "You mean he was tortured."

"Yes, I'm afraid so," Gaius says. "It would account for why we have heard no news from him since he arrived in Camelot."

"Wait, are you saying _my father_ did this?" Arthur asks. He knows his father's hatred of all things in relation to magic runs deep. But this...this is beyond cruel, the work of a crazed madman or bloodthirsty barbarian.

"I know it's hard to believe, sire, but a certain marking has been branded into the forehead. It's hard to make out due to the decomposition of the skin, but I recognize the symbol well enough. ...Tell me, have you ever heard your father mention the name 'Aredian'?"

"Aredian?" Arthur frowns. "My father has spoken highly of the man once or twice, but I don't know much about him, nor I have ever met him in person."

"He is often known as the Witchfinder, and hunts down anyone suspected of having magic by any means necessary," Gaius says. "I have dealt with him before, back when Uther requested his services during the Great Purge. Aredian's area of expertise is interrogation, and his methods are notoriously ruthless. He can force a man into confessing anything, be it treason against the crown, or the practice of sorcery--"

"--or the location of a Druidic clan who has captured the Crown Prince of Camelot," Arthur finishes. He clenches his jaw. "This man, Matthew: did he even _have_ magic?"

"Not that I'm aware of, sire. It's one of the reasons he was chosen as a messenger, so he would be in full compliance of Camelot's laws. But Aredian doesn’t care whether someone has magic or not; it seems to be more of the thrill of the hunt for him, and the generous payment he receives at the end."

"This all my fault," Merlin whispers. He looks lost, shaken. "I shouldn't have..."

"You're not entirely to blame, my boy," Gaius reassures him, placing a hand on Merlin's shoulder. "I had no idea that Aredian had been sent for, but this is why I warned you that Uther can be a dangerous man to mess with."

Merlin covers his face with his hands and grinds the heels of his palms against his eyelids. When he drops them down again, his expression has gone stony, and more fitting of the man called Emrys. "Gaius, tell the others to make preparations. Send out scouts, and have them report back if there’s any sign of an army leaving Camelot’s gates, but tell them to remain hidden at all times. The elderly and those with families can stay and fight if they wish, or they can choose to escape to somewhere else. They might be able to go to Ealdor; my mother can keep them safe there, at least for a little bit."

Gaius nods, and then excuses himself to go off and spread the news.

Despite a slight trembling in his fingers, there's no longer any sign of what's racing through Merlin's mind, his emotions tucked away from public view. It's times like this where Arthur wonders which Merlin is the real one: is it the clumsy, tender-hearted, and naive idealist, or the wise, stoic, quick-thinking man who is willing to do anything to protect those he cares about?

Merlin opens his mouth to speak, but then shuts it when nothing is forthcoming. He surveys the camp, and then turns on his heel, his receding figure disappearing behind the flap of his tent. 

The crowd has grown eerily quiet. With the exception of those consoling the mourning woman, no one says a single word. Most of these people are trained warriors, used to the sights of battle, but the brutal nature of this death is enough to shock even the most hardened of hearts.

Arthur stares down at the battered body of the deceased man, Matthew, whose only apparent crime was delivering a message. Disgust churns in his gut--at a life being cut so tragically short, and at his father for being the one who controlled the metaphorical blade. But mostly, Arthur's disgusted with himself, for being so blind. No matter what evils those with magic have committed, innocent people shouldn't be treated like this, hunted down and slaughtered like animals.

This is wrong, and Arthur hates that it's taken him so long to see that.

He swallows and takes a step forward, and then another, until he's standing at the feet of Matthew's body. He can feel eyes watching his every move, and he hates the fear he can feel radiating off of the people he now considers allies. They're all waiting to see how he'll react, and he knows he there's only one choice he can make.

"This is no way to achieve peace," Arthur says, and takes off the handmade crown he was given yesterday at the Beltane celebrations. The ribbons are a little askew, the flowers crushed, but it's all he has on hand to offer as penance. He bends down to place the crown on top of Matthew's head, offering a silent prayer before he stands back up to face the crowd.

"Know this," he says, raising his voice so it carries loudly enough to be heard by all. "Things will change, and one day you will no longer have to live in fear. You have my word."

The crowd parts for him as he walks, like a swiftly moving stream splitting around a impenetrable boulder. Some bow their heads in respect as he passes by, others clap their approval softly. He doesn't feel like he deserves any of it, not until he actually comes through on his promise.

He enters the tent and spots Merlin standing in the corner, arms wrapped around himself. "...Merlin?"

"I'm just so sick and tired of fighting," Merlin says, his voice scratchy like it's been rubbed raw. "I thought I was doing the right thing, but I just made it worse. How many more people are going to die?"

If he was any other person, Arthur would label Merlin as a sniveling coward. But Arthur understands; whenever one of his men falls in battle, or sickness and hunger claim another victim during the harsher times of Camelot's history, Arthur feels like he's failed somehow. If only he had been stronger, or faster, or smarter, the people he has sworn to protect wouldn't have to suffer.

"I don't know," Arthur says. As painful as probably it is to hear right now, he knows the blunt truth is the best thing for the situation. "But I will tell you what I tell all my young knights: no man is worth your tears."

Merlin chokes out a laugh, a dry and brittle sound. "Maybe," he says, rubbing at his reddened eyes with the back of his arm. "Maybe not."

 _This is him,_ Arthur thinks. _This is the real Merlin, the one who hides away the person he is to become the one he's supposed to be. This is_ my _Merlin._

"The message," Arthur says. "The one you sent my father. What did it say?"

"It posed the possibility of a peace treaty," Merlin says. He sinks down onto the edge of his cot. "But now I realize there's no hope of your father ever agreeing to such a thing, is there?"

Arthur winces. Some part of him wants to defend his father, simply out of filial obligation, but there's no way to sugarcoat the facts. "No, there isn’t," he says, taking a seat next to Merlin. "He wouldn't rest until every man, woman, and child here is dead, magic or not."

"I thought so," Merlin says softly, drawing up his knees until they're under his chin. "And what if we released you now?"

The implication behind Merlin's question makes Arthur's heart sink like a stone. "That's why you've kept me here, then. As collateral."

He doesn't know why he's so surprised. The possibility that the clan planned on holding him for some sort of ransom was one of the first things he considered the moment he was captured. But he had started to think, after everything, there was something more than that. 

"No, never," Merlin says, shaking his head quickly. "I mean, it is a little bit like blackmail, but not in the way you think. I just wanted the chance to be able to talk to you. Taking you here was the only way I knew how."

"Why?" Arthur asks. "Why me?"

"I can't believe you don't know anything about who you are, when it's been a part of my entire life." Merlin chews on the ragged edge of his thumbnail, brow furrowed deep in thought. "Imagine growing up in a small village, labeled as a bastard and a monster wherever you go. Even as a child, people fear you and the things you're capable of doing. Fear breeds hate, and hate births anger. So when your mother is approached by a group of people who offer their help, she sends away her only child so he has the chance of a better life."

"She gave you away?" Arthur interrupts, frowning. His curiosity is piqued by this sudden discussion of Merlin’s past, though Arthur fails to understand how he plays a part in all of it.

"She _gave_ me the chance to be safe," Merlin says. "She knew the Druids would protect me in ways she couldn’t. Even though Ealdor lies in Cenred’s kingdom, she knew if word got out about my powers, I would be hunted down and killed. Or worse."

The mention of Cenred’s name causes Arthur’s teeth to grind painfully together in his mouth. Though there’s no love lost between his father and the ruler of Essetir, Arthur knows Cenred wouldn’t be above handing over sorcerers to Uther in exchange for a handsome reward.

"But wait," he says, zeroing in another aspect of Merlin’s story. "You said ‘only child.’ What about Freya? I thought she was your sister."

Merlin smiles for the first time in the conversation. "She is, but not in blood. She was taken in around the same time I was, and we bonded because of it. At the time, she and I were the only ones in the clan around the same age, and she was one of the people that didn't treat me just as Emrys."

"Are you telling me everyone treats you the way they do just because of a supposed prophecy?" Arthur doesn't bother to hide his disbelief. He always thought the reasoning behind the Druids' faith in Emrys would be based on something a little more substantial than that.

"I didn't believe it at first either. But as more and more people with magic were being persecuted for their beliefs and who they are, sometimes it was the only thing that gave me hope for the future. Over and over, I was told that one day, with my help, the Once and Future King would unite Albion using sorcery." Merlin's smile turns rueful at the corners, and he lets out a strained chuckle. "Imagine how I felt when I found he not only hated me and what I stood for, but was also a complete prat."

Arthur goes stock-still, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up. 

"There must be a mistake," he says, feeling like he’s liable to choke on his own tongue. "Why would there be a prophecy about me involving magic, when it’s against everything I’ve stood for?"

"It’s not about what you have done, but what you will do that makes all the difference," Merlin says. "I still believe in the prophecy, and in you, Arthur. I’ve always trusted you will become the king I will be proud to serve." He reaches over to trace the collar fastened around Arthur’s neck. "Even if you needed a push in the right direction at first."

Confusion reigns supreme in Arthur’s mind, wreaking havoc with his emotions. He feels like he’s been used his entire life: first by his father, in Uther’s mindless quest to eradicate magic from the lands, and now by Merlin and his destiny to bring it back. He’s torn between the two oppositions, and while he finds himself leaning towards Merlin more, the whole thing still infuriates him.

"Do you think that makes it right?" Arthur snaps, swatting Merlin’s hand away and launching off the cot. He has to resist the urge to apologize when he sees Merlin flinch and recoil away, which just makes his blood boil even more. "You forced me into this, remember?"

"Because there was no other way!" Merlin shouts back. "How could I convince you to see reason without you wanting to separate my head from my body first?"

"So much for you always trusting me, _Merlin_ ," Arthur says, scoffing. "Tell me, is that only because you can control my every little thing I do? How can I know if I’m going to be this great king some day if I’m not even sure my actions are my own?"

There’s a soft click, and then something falls onto his feet. He looks down to see an seemingly innocuous looking thin strap of black leather, laying there in the dirt. The air around his neck feels cooler now, and when he reaches up to touch it, his fingers brush against nothing but bare skin.

The gold in Merlin’s eyes melts back to the usual blue as he lowers his hand. "You’re right," he whispers, his head bowed in submission. "I shouldn’t have done that to you. I’m sorry."

In an instant, Arthur lunges forward, knocking Merlin down and pinning him to the cot. Arthur feels the wild fluttering of Merlin's heartbeat beneath his hands as he wraps them around the base of Merlin's neck. It’s like a bird with a lame wing, ensnared in a hunter’s trap. 

If he just pushed inwardly a little bit more with his thumbs, he could easily crush Merlin’s delicate windpipe. He knows this, and he knows Merlin is aware of it too. Any second now, Arthur is expecting a blast of magic to throw him across the tent, or for Merlin to at least start struggling for air. 

But Merlin doesn’t react like expected. Tears well up, unbidden, in the corners of his eyes as he stares up at Arthur, his gaze never wavering. He doesn’t look worried or scared, even as his face begins to darken and turn various shades of reds and purples. Instead, he looks calm, serene, and completely trusting of Arthur’s judgment. 

At first Arthur thinks it’s some sort of trick, and pushes down further to see if that’s enough to garner a reaction. But as precious time ticks by and there’s no change in Merlin’s behavior, the horror of Arthur’s actions finally consumes him. He releases his grip on Merlin and leans over the side of the cot, dry-retching until the stench of bile rising up his throat burns his nostrils.

He could have killed Merlin just now in a fit of anger, and Merlin would have let him do it. 

It takes much longer than Arthur would like to hear Merlin's first rattling inhale. Once he’s sure Merlin is actually breathing again, Arthur lets out the breath that he has been holding himself. 

"Are you _insane_?" he shouts over the sputtering coughs that seize up Merlin’s trembling body. "Why the hell didn’t you try to stop me?"

"To show that I would no longer take control of your actions," Merlin says, his words coming out as a raspy hiss. "And to prove that I trusted you, even without the collar on."

Arthur can’t understand how Merlin can be so simple and naive in terms of his logic. Does he really have that much trust in Arthur when Arthur isn't entirely sure of himself, or is there something else at play here? 

" _You idiot_ ," Arthur says through gritted teeth. "What if I had killed you just now? What then?" 

A shudder runs down the back of his spine at the thought. Even after all the deception, he can’t find it himself to hate Merlin. He just _can’t_. 

Merlin sits up slowly and gives him a sad, knowing smile. "That would never happen. You couldn’t kill me."

"I wouldn’t be so sure about that," Arthur says bitterly. "I have been trained to kill since birth, you know."

How many lives have fallen under his hand, he wonders, all in the name of Camelot? How many belonged to people like Matthew, or Gaius, or Freya, or even Merlin himself? He’s never found joy in taking another’s life, but has never stayed his hand as often as he could have either.

"You might have killed before, but you’re not a killer, Arthur," Merlin says, as if he can read Arthur’s inner thoughts. He rests a hesitant hand on Arthur’s forearm. "No matter how many mistakes you have made, you’re still a good man. And one day, you will become a great and just king, with or without my help. Of that I have no doubt."

Humbled into silence, Arthur lets his head hang down between his shoulders. No one--not even his own father--has ever expressed their faith in him so strongly before. Of course, the populace of Camelot respect him as their prince, but that could very well be because they really have no other choice. His father would insist that’s all matters; it’s Uther’s belief that the masses need someone worthy to rule over them, not be their friend.

But Arthur disagrees. He hopes he’s someone they would trust with their problems and truly want as their leader, and not one they’re just forced to follow. So a part of him does want to believe Merlin, if only to help alleviate his self-doubts about ascending the throne. 

But whether it’s true or not, the word of a man that’s been manipulating him like a personal marionette carries little to no weight in Arthur’s mind. 

"Leave me," he says, and when Merlin doesn’t move, Arthur repeats himself louder: "I said, leave me."

"Arthur, I--"

" _Merlin_ ," Arthur says, his voice as sharp and biting as cold steel. "If you trust me so damn much, you will leave right now."

Merlin promptly clamps his mouth shut. He wobbles to his feet and heads towards the entrance of the tent. But just as he pulls back the flap, he stops and gives a sorrowful glance in Arthur’s direction.

"You probably don’t believe me," he says, "but I swear, the collar could only control your actions, and only when I gave a command or used magic directly on you. Your thoughts and feelings have always been your own, Arthur. Please remember that."

With that, Merlin bows his head and leaves. 

And Arthur is left well and truly alone.

*

Arthur doesn’t see Merlin again for the rest of the morning.

He thought he would feel relieved by this, but after an hour or so by himself, Arthur begins to grow anxious. He starts to pace around the tent, wishing he had a sword in hand and a practice dummy nearby. It might not do anything to help solve his current dilemma, but at least it would be a more productive way to vent out his frustrations.

Finally, he decides enough is enough: he steps out of the tent, and scours his surroundings quickly. There’s no sign of Merlin anywhere; in fact, the whole camp seems nearly deserted.

This must be it, then. This is his chance. He could gather some supplies, wrangle up a horse, and--

And what? Parade back into Camelot to be hailed as "the hero who escaped the evil clutches of sorcery"? Stand idly by and let his father destroy every last member of the Draig clan, young and old alike, in misplaced retribution? 

No, Arthur can’t return, not yet. Not like this. After everything that’s happened, he can’t just turn his back on these people. They might not fall under the shield of his protection like the official citizens of Camelot do, and they might have strange customs that Arthur still has yet to get completely used to, but in the short amount of time he’s spent with them they have become his friends and comrades--and he’s made them a promise he intends to keep.

That’s right, he realizes, his steps slowing; he made them a promise. One he feels just as strongly about now as he did when he was wearing the collar. The cynical side of him suggests that it could be just residual magic, still enchanting him, but he doesn’t think--no, he _knows_ that’s not it. His mind is as crystal clear as the surface of a calm pond on a summer’s day; not muddied or bogged down by the influence of others--be it his father, Merlin, or otherwise.

His decision is his and his alone. No longer will he let anyone else claim responsibility for it.

Which means that maybe, _maybe_ Merlin is right. 

Arthur certainly doesn’t condone Merlin’s actions. But as the anger steadily dissipates from his body, he at least begins to understand them. He grudgingly admits that he indeed would have been too stubborn and set in his father’s ways to listen if Merlin had approached him directly. Their first encounter is enough of an example of that.

They both seem to strive towards the same thing, however: the idea of peace without invoking even more needless bloodshed. And Arthur is not going to squander an opportunity to achieve that goal, regardless of what personal feelings may be involved. 

Armed with this knowledge, Arthur goes to the only other tent he recognizes, hoping to find some more answers. 

"Gaius?" he asks, peeking his head inside. "Are you in here?"

Gaius jumps in surprise, nearly dropping the beaker held in his hands. "Sire! What are you doing here?" Whether or not he notices the absence of Arthur’s collar, he doesn’t say. "I thought you would be at the lakeside with the others for Matthew’s funeral."

So that explains where everyone else has gone. A part of Arthur wishes he had attended the ceremony, but despite his speech to the clan earlier, he doesn’t know if his presence would be so welcome. "I’m not sure that’s such a great idea," he says, hating that he’s using a man’s death as the excuse, "considering my father is the one that had Matthew beaten and killed."

"No one blames you for that," Gaius says, placing the beaker down on the nearby workbench in order to give Arthur a supportive pat on the shoulder. "I know you didn’t come here under the most agreeable of circumstances, but it seems you’ve become a part of the clan now, whether you meant to or not."

Arthur supposes Gaius’s words are meant to be comforting, but he’s taken aback by how true they are. Shame fills him for the brief moment he even considered running away, and he quickly blinks to clear his now glossy eyes. "What about you? Why aren’t you at the funeral?"

Gaius sighs, shuffling back towards his work. "Sad to say, the walk is getting to be too much for these old bones of mine. Merlin suggested I use a horse, but once you reach my age, it’s a lot of work just to get out of bed most mornings." He chuckles, and stirs some dried herbs into the beaker to form a dark green liquid. "Of course, Merlin doesn’t like to hear it when I say things like that. That boy has probably disillusioned himself into thinking I’ll travel with the clan forever."

Sensing an opening in the conversation, Arthur wastes no time in pouncing on it. "How _did_ you start traveling with the clan, anyway? I thought you said you once worked for my father."

The beaker slips from Gaius’s grip then, the crockery splintering into hundreds of tiny dagger-like shards against the workbench. Its contents ooze over the edge of the wood, and drip onto the ground with loud, wet _plops_.

"I did say that, yes," Gaius says, with an ease that comes across as much too forced. "But like I also said, it doesn’t matter now; it was a long time ago. Now, let me just clean this mess up--" 

Arthur reaches out to grab Gaius' arm, holding it in place. "Gaius, tell me. Please."

Seconds of complete silence pass by, but just when Arthur is about to repeat himself, Gaius finally asks, "...Sire, what did your father tell you was the reason behind the Great Purge?"

"He told me that sorcery was the reason for my mother's death," Arthur says. "It was considered to be the first act of war against Camelot and its people, and why we have to rid the land of magic to this very day." He squirms a little at the last bit; repeating his father’s decree no longer sits comfortably with him like it once had.

"Yes, I thought that might be the case," Gaius says, letting out another sigh, heavier than the first. He hunches over the table, carefully picking up some of the larger pieces of the broken beaker to toss them into a rubbish basket. "Arthur, while there are many atrocities committed in this world by those who wield magic, you may have realized by now that it is not evil as Uther has made it out to be. The truth is, there was no attack against your mother, magical or otherwise, at least not deliberately."

"What are you saying?" Arthur narrows his eyes. "My mother is _dead_ , Gaius. She was killed by magic. You can't deny that."

Gaius reaches over to his collection of books, selecting one of the dusty tomes and flipping through its pages. "Magic was involved, yes, but perhaps not in the way you think. You see, Ygraine desperately wanted a child, but no amount of science could change the fact that her womb was barren. So Uther turned to sorcery as a last resort." He pauses, and then hands the book over to Arthur. "But as much as I and others tried to warn him, he refused to listen to one of the fundamental rules of the Old Religion: 'A life for a life.'"

"You’re not--" Arthur stares down at the book in horror, the arcane symbols and text silently mocking him as the meaning behind them sinks in. "Surely you’re not suggesting--"

"In the end, Uther did receive the heir he always wanted," Gaius continues, his face grim. "But there was a great cost to correct the balance of nature: your mother paid with her life, your father paid with his love and compassion, and we all paid with our freedom."

" _No_." Arthur stumbles back onto his heels, shoving the book away. "You're wrong. My father would never resort to using magic."

Unlike the book, however, the idea isn’t so easily pushed aside. And the more it starts to make sense, the less he tries. It would explain why all forms of magic have been banned from Camelot, even the type that would prove beneficial to its people. It would explain his father’s refusal to speak about the passing of Arthur’s mother, going so far as forbidding anyone from mentioning her name in public.

It would explain why after anything Arthur has ever accomplished, he still gets the feeling as though he's a disappointment sometimes. Like he's a failure as a prince...and as a son.

"I'm sorry, Sire," Gaius says softly, closing the book and placing it back with the others. "I promised I would never tell another soul the truth, but I think the time for keeping secrets has long since passed, don’t you agree?"

The muscles in Arthur’s jaw tense and tighten before he concedes Gaius has a point. "What happened afterwards, then?" he asks, even though he already knows the answer. Funny how the start of the crusade against magic is the one thing about Ygraine's death that Uther has no qualms about discussing in eager repetition. 

"In his grief, Uther began to round up every sorcerer he could find. Even if you only knew a little bit of magic, or were sympathetic towards the cause, you were automatically considered guilty of treason and were sentenced to death," Gaius says, his face clouding over as he recounts the past. "I lost many friends in the Great Purge, but I did not dare go against your father. Because of this, Uther said I would be spared and allowed to stay in Camelot, as long as I promised never to use magic again. I agreed."

"But you still left." Arthur tries to keep the bitterness out of his tone. It's not that he blames Gaius for leaving, but it would have been nice to have someone as a possible confidant when he was growing up. He can easily imagine that he could have gone to Gaius for advice when Arthur felt there was no one else (not even his father) that he could talk to.

Gaius nods, with a sad smile. "Yes, I still left. Because while I was given diplomatic immunity, my betrothed was not. Alice was one of the few people whom I managed to smuggle out of Camelot, and at the last minute she begged me to come with her," he says, guilt deepening the lines of his wrinkles. "Please, you have to realize the situation I was in at the time; I had to make a quick decision, and while I fear your father does not appreciate the one I made, I know now that I would make it all over again."

"It's all right, Gaius," Arthur says, and he genuinely means it. He's seen the way Alice and Gaius interact with each other, and how the two still seem to be in so much love after all of these years. He can’t find fault in Gaius’s decision, even if it was considered treason against the crown. "I would have done the same thing."

Gaius’s smile grows, and some of the tension lessens from his shoulders. "Thank you sire. I had a feeling you would understand." He carefully eases himself down into a chair, and gestures for Arthur to take a seat as well. "As for how I started traveling with the clan, I knew the former leader personally, as he used to be on Uther's council as well. So when he asked Alice and myself to be the clan's healers, it was the perfect solution."

Arthur frowns in confusion. Of course he knows the Draig clan must have had another leader before Merlin (considering the clan's reputation has been around before Merlin was born), but Arthur has never heard mention of the man before. "Who was this former leader?"

"Balinor, the king's personal Dragonlord before the Great Purge. After he escaped Camelot, he formed this group of refugees and--"

"--was also my father."

Both Arthur and Gaius swivel their heads around to see Merlin standing in the doorway. His eyes are still red-rimmed from crying and there’s a scrap of blue fabric haphazardly tied around his neck, barely hiding the angry bruising outlines that Arthur’s fingers have left behind. He meets Arthur's gaze for the briefest of seconds, a turbulent mixture of emotions radiating off of him before he humbly lowers his vision towards the ground in a pantomime of servitude.

Arthur feels like his heart has pounded its way right out of his chest and into his throat, forming a lump he can’t swallow back down. He’d thought after he was free of the collar, after he was no longer forced to be by Merlin’s side, after every wrongdoing committed against him, he would be content in never seeing Merlin’s face ever again. But the first emotion he experiences at Merlin’s sudden reappearance isn’t anger or hate, but concern. Guilt. Regret. Loss. 

It’s then that Arthur realizes that his connection with Merlin isn’t just back in full force, but that it never truly went away in the first place. He knows it’s probably dangerous and foolhardy to still care for someone that’s used and deceived him; he doesn’t need to put his hand in fire twice to know that it can burn. But if if Merlin trusts him so much that he’s willing to literally put his life in Arthur’s hands, then maybe Arthur can try to do the same.

"Gaius," Merlin finally says, after the silence has been stretched and spread until it's nigh unbearable, "you're needed outside for an emergency clan meeting. You as well, Arthur." Then, seemingly in afterthought, he adds a gentle, "Please."

Arthur automatically rises from his chair before he stops with the realization he could refuse Merlin's request if he chooses, or ignore it in its entirety. He's almost forgotten what it's like to have total free will over his actions; after weeks of being controlled by magic, it’s a strange feeling. But it’s the first time since he’s met Merlin that Arthur feels like they stand on common and equal ground. 

In the end Arthur goes, not because he is forced, but because he is given a choice. 

What he doesn’t expect is the sea of faces that greet him the moment he steps out of the tent. The crowd stand around like statues, silent and unmoving, all eyes focused on him. Then, in unspoken unison, the group bow their heads in submission as they kneel upon the ground. Every single member of the clan, young and old. 

Including Merlin. 

Arthur is at a loss for words as he stares down at the astonishing display of loyalty, oblivious of its cause. 

"I, Emrys, on behalf of myself and the Draig clan," Merlin announces, his still hoarse voice straining to be loud enough for all to hear, "do hereby swear fealty and service to Arthur Pendragon, Crown Prince of Camelot." He pauses, and then lifts his head, eyes shining brightly as he looks up at Arthur. "...And the Once and Future King of Albion."

[ ](http://ic.pics.livejournal.com/fuckyeah/1173928/402254/402254_original.jpg)

A series of whistles and cheers erupts into the air, the sound nearly deafening as it rings in Arthur’s ears. He blinks back his blurring vision, struck by the amount of faith and pride these people have in him. If the prophecy is true and he really is to become their last hope of peace, he prays that he doesn’t let them down.

"Arthur, do you accept?" Merlin asks, his focus never shifting from Arthur. "My liege, my _king_."

This is his manner of apology, Arthur realizes. Not so much as put into words, but into actions--into reality. Merlin could have spoken about fulfilling ancient destinies and building magical kingdoms until he was blue in the face, and Arthur would still have his doubts. But now, _now_ , he's starting to believe.

Arthur has to swallow back his emotions before he is able to give his answer. "I accept your oath of allegiance gratefully," he says, struggling to keep his voice steady and calm. "From here on in, you all are to be considered honorary members of Camelot, and therefore are under my full protection. I know now that what you truly seek is peace, as do I. But there are others--" 

He tries not think of his father, of men who would rather mindlessly slaughter to cover up for their past digressions, of rulers who judge not by fairness but a set of preconceived notions and biased laws. 

Arthur fails to think of anything else.

"There are others," he repeats, "who believe otherwise. So together, you and I, we will fight; for your family, for your friends, and for all of those who have been wrongly persecuted. We will fight so we no longer have to live in fear of our fellow man just because they are different. We will fight so perhaps one day, our children and our children’s children will live in a world of peace. _We will fight._ "

The rest of his impromptu speech is drowned out as everyone swarms him, shouting out admiration for the man they consider their true king. Arthur loses track of how many come up to him to offer personal pledges of fidelity, but he listens to every single one, taking it all to heart. With each congratulatory remark, with each expression of gratitude, he grows more and more confident in himself and the role he's supposed to play. 

No, Arthur mentally amends, the role he _wants_ to play. 

Instinctively he looks back towards Merlin, only to find that Merlin isn’t in the same spot as he was before. Instead he stands off the side, far away from everyone else, hiding in the shadows cast down by the nearby trees. His expression is that of an earnest child's, brimming with unabashed adoration as he watches Arthur, his mouth quirked into a private smile. But he doesn't approach, not like the others do, and it takes Arthur a few seconds to realize why: in some way, he’s still being given the space he needs. The space he _thought_ he needs.

But after all the time they’ve spent together by each other’s side, the space begins to feel like more a bottomless chasm, dividing them further and further apart as the minutes pass. It’s left up to Arthur whether or not to cross it, all starting with one blind leap of faith. 

Excusing himself from the rest of the group, he makes his way to the edge of the crowd. As soon as Arthur grows close enough to the shadows, Merlin kneels down amongst the roots and undergrowth of the trees, his head dipping low between his slightly shaking shoulders.

"Milord," he breathes, and pulls out something that's been tucked into the folds of his neckerchief. He holds it out to Arthur with a closed palm, and then tilts his head upwards enough to bare the pale, mottled skin of his throat.

"Do..." He gulps, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. "Do as you see fit."

Arthur stares down at what he's been handed. It's the leather collar; his leather collar, or at least the one he’s come to consider as his. It seems so hard to believe now, that something so small and insignificant could have so much sway over him. And now, over Merlin, if Arthur is so inclined.

But, as he turns his attention to Merlin's neck, presented like a prey waiting to for the merciful killing blow, Arthur's gaze catches on the bruises that his outburst from earlier has left behind. He feels a pang of shame upon seeing them again; it's a reminder of the dangers of letting his anger take a hold of his decisions, even when it seems justifiable.

He's already had power wrapped around Merlin's neck once. He doesn’t need to experience it again. 

At first, Arthur wants to destroy the collar. To shred it into thousands of feathery fibers to be scattered in the wind, just so no one else would ever be forced to wear it. But something stays his hand, something deep and guttural inside of him that says no, not yet. So instead he wraps it around his wrist, not fastening it, but knotting the ends like it’s some sort of token or favor. He gives it an experimental tug, testing to see if the magic in it is still active, and is satisfied when he feels no ill effects in return.

"...I think," he finally says as he offers his hand to Merlin, "that in order for this so-called prophecy of yours to truly work, neither of us should be forced into it."

Merlin takes in a sharp breath, and Arthur can feel the tremble in his fingers when their hands interlock with one another. "...A-arthur?"

"Besides, being docile like this doesn't suit you, _Merlin_ ," Arthur continues with a small, smug grin, hoisting Merlin to his feet. "You'd be a horrible slave; mouthing back all the time, and generally being more trouble than you're worth."

A blinding smile lights up the darkened contours of Merlin's face, and the tightness Arthur has been carrying in his chest starts to ease. He hasn't completely forgiven what Merlin has done, nor will he ever forget. But this might be a step for them to move past it all the same.

"I guess I should be thanking you as well." Arthur tilts his head back, gesturing to the large crowd gathered behind them. He’s still in awe of the support he’s been shown from people who were once considered his enemies. "For arranging all of this."

Merlin shakes his head. "I didn't do this, Arthur," he says. "This was all because of you. You're the one that promised things would change, that you'll fight for these people, and they believe it. They're willing to risk their lives for you now."

Arthur scrubs a hand across his mouth at that. He's used to losing men so that he and Camelot could survive and thrive. But for some reason, the thought of losing any member of the Draig clan is different. He knows they're competent warriors, and some have the benefit of magic attacks tucked into their line of arsenal. But he wonders if that will truly be enough.

"Belief and promises can not win a war alone, Merlin. Not this one," he says lowly, followed by a heavy sigh. He crosses his arm against his chest and leans against the trunk of the nearest tree, his brow furrowed. "I've seen you all fight in battle enough times that I know your strengths, as well as your weaknesses. But so does my father; we might be safe here for a little while longer, but at any time he could send an army that would easily outnumber us five to one. Even with magic on our side, I really don't like those odds."

Arthur looks across the camp, taking in the idyllic scenery that will soon be likely marred by the ravages of war. It's not exactly home to him, but he's forged a close connection to it and the people that inhabit it in such a short time. It makes his heart ache, but he can't deny the strong possibility that they might lose this fight. "So unless you can create some extra soldiers out of thin air--"

He stops mid-sentence when he sees a strange expression flicker across Merlin's face. "What is it? ...You can't really do that, can you?"

"What? Oh, no, but..." Merlin bites his bottom lip, apprehensive. "...I do think there's someone you should finally meet."

*

The existence of a massive series of caves in such close proximity to camp catches Arthur by utter surprise. A network of twisting and turning tunnels would make for excellent shelter from both foe and elements alike, and he wonders why the clan hasn’t made their lodgings there instead.

That is, until the stale, fetid air emanating from the entrance hits him square in the face. "Ugh, what _is_ that awful stench?"

Merlin lets out a weak chuckle. "You get used to it after awhile," he says, even though he looks a bit peaked himself. Then again, he’s been looking rather pale and withdrawn ever since they arrived, and has refused to say where they’re here and who they’re supposed to meeting.

"You probably wouldn’t believe me, even if I told you," he had said when Arthur first asked. "Just trust me on this, please? You'll meet him soon enough."

Arthur can't imagine who would be willing live in these kind of deplorable conditions. The smell grows even worse the farther they traverse into the bowels of the earth, reeking of rot and decay. A trickle of water from an underground spring constantly drips down from the dampened ceiling and walls, and an age-old layer of mud, feces, and other filth cake the floors, and soon, the bottoms of their boots as well. 

Their descent is made even more dangerous by the fact that sharp, jagged rocks just out from all angles, and the once they're no longer near the entrance they lose all source of natural light. Merlin conjures a blue glowing ball from magic so they can see can at least see their hands in front of their faces, but it does little to cut back the foreboding darkness that has enveloped them almost without warning. Arthur struggles to keep his sense of direction, but it gets harder to tell which way is up and down. All he can do is trust Merlin as they continue to move through passageways that have grown thinner and shorter over a period of time, causing them to squeeze past tight crevices or duck their heads under stony outcrops at several points.

But then the path suddenly widens out until they’re standing on a ledge that overlooks an enormous cavern. Arthur can’t get an accurate judge of its size, considering it spreads out every which way as far as the eye can see. But if he had to guess, he would wager that Camelot’s lower town could easily tuck away into one of the cavern’s corners, and some of the stalagmites springing from the ground rival the castle’s tallest spires. 

However, before Arthur can take in any more of the view, the silence is broken by a multitude of unexplainable and inhuman noises. Dust particles filter down from the ceiling as the whole place shakes and trembles, as if something large and powerful is trying to take it apart from the inside. The sound is so deafening that Arthur automatically covers his ears and frantically searches for the source. He can’t determine what horrible manner of beast is causing the disturbance, nor how many there are or how close by they reside. 

He’s bracing himself to be ready to either fight or run, whichever one becomes more necessary, when he sees Merlin walk out to the edge and shout, "Kilgharrah, I know that you can hear me! Answer me!"

There’s a mighty _whoosh_ over their heads, like the flapping of leathery wings, and then a massive thud as a shadowy something lands perched on one of the stalagmites a few yards away. 

Arthur can’t believe his eyes. It’s a dragon; an actual, living, breathing, dragon. He’s never seen one in person before, although he’s heard all the stories about their supposed exploits over the years. Like all other creatures of magic, they’ve been constantly hunted, their numbers dwindling down to what Arthur thought was extinction. But now he wonders how many have just taken to hiding like this, only coming out once in awhile to fuel old wives’ tales.

"I’m here," the dragon says, which is shocking in its own right; Arthur didn’t know the thing could even be capable of speech. "The question is, why are _you_?"

"I didn’t know if you would come or not if I called you the normal way," Merlin says with a half-hearted shrug. "Even though you don’t participate with the others, I know how important this time of year is for you."

"Then you must know the consequences of you being here as well. And yet, here we are." The dragon turns his attention towards Arthur, and respectfully bows his head. "Though I must say, it is an honor and a privilege to finally meet you in the flesh, Once and Future King."

Arthur’s eyes widen. "...You know who I am?" he asks. "How is that possible? Who are you?"

"Like you, I go by many different names, but the only one your tongue would be able to pronounce is ‘Kilgharrah.’ And I have been waiting for you, Arthur Pendragon, High King of Albion. Your story has been told by countless generations before you even came to be in this world."

"What--"

A strained screech rings out from somewhere nearby, the sound bouncing off the walls, and Arthur cringes. "Just what the hell is all that noise anyway?"

Kilgharrah chuckles, amusement at Arthur’s confusion written all over his reptilian face. "My apologies. You’ll have to excuse the rest of my brethren. We only mate around this time of year, and--" He gives what Arthur can only guess to be a dragon version of a lecherous grin. "--things tend to get what you humans call, ‘vocal.’"

"Oh," Arthur says simply while trying desperately not to think too hard on the mechanics of dragon copulation.

"Enough. That is not what we came to talk about," Merlin says, a rosy pink spilling across the bridge of his nose to flood into his cheeks. "Uther has refused all our attempts to make peace, leaving us with no other choice to fight. Can we count on your support?"

Kilgharrah nods sagely. "Of course. Like I have told you many times before, young warlock: magic will only be allowed to truly return to this land once Uther Pendragon and those like him are dead."

"No!" Arthur shouts. No matter what horrors Uther has committed, that doesn’t change the fact that Arthur doesn’t want to lose yet another parent to magic. "I understand now that my father has been wrong in his crusade against sorcery, and will probably never change his mind. But killing him solves nothing; we must show mercy to prove we’re better than him."

He feels Merlin go still beside him, which is the only warning Arthur receives before he’s knocked down to the ground, somehow managing to be pinned underneath Kilgharrah’s foot without being crushed.

"‘ _Mercy_ ’?" Kilgharrah roars, his hot, rancid breath washing over Arthur’s skin. "Where was mercy when my mate was ambushed by a patrol by of Uther’s men in the midst of making our nest? Where was mercy when they tied her up, her body already weakened from the trials of egg laying, and forced her to watch as they smashed our unborn young to pieces? Where was mercy when our Dragonlord tried to stop them, only to be surrounded, butchered by cowards and left for dead before he could summon help? Where was mercy when they finally slit my mate’s throat, not enough to kill her instantly, but just enough so she would bleed out like any other wretched animal? Do not speak to me of _mercy_ , Pendragon, when is about ten years too _late_."

For a brief moment, struggling as Kilgharrah places more and more weight on his chest, Arthur thinks that this is it. This is how he is going to die.

But then he hears a low rumble, and then Merlin thundering in a voice Arthur has never heard him use before: " _Dragorn! Non didilkai!_ " He raises a defiant hand up to Kilgharrah, his pupils flashing a dangerous gold. "Kilgharrah! He is your king, and you _will_ release him now! If you refuse to listen to him, then you will at least listen to _me_."

Sulking like a dog that has just been scolded by its master, Kilgharrah reluctantly lifts up his foot. As soon as Arthur is freed, he rolls to the side and out of the way, coughing and sputtering for air.

"Arthur!" Merlin is instantly on his knees, running his hands along Arthur's body to check for injuries. "Are you okay? Are you hurt anywhere?"

Arthur shakes his head, still wheezing slightly. "I'm fine." He has to bite back a grimace when he goes to sit up; his body will feel like one gigantic bruise later, but at least nothing seems to be broken or severely damaged. 

"I'm sorry," Merlin murmurs, helping him to his feet. "I should have acted sooner."

Acrid dark smoke billows out of Kilgharrah's nostrils as he glowers at Merlin. "Dragonlord or not, you ask too much of me this time, Merlin. There is a debt that needs to be repaid."

"I know, but--"

"You claim you know, and yet you insist on letting the man who hunted my kind and slaughtered my mate live!" Kilgharrah smashes the ground beneath him in his rage, demonstrating how fearsome and deadly his claws could be if he truly wanted. "Dragons mate for life, and so to lose one’s mate is like losing a piece of yourself! You of all people should know that, considering dragonlords are exactly the same way!"

Merlin clenches his jaw, and then averts his face to the side. "I...I don’t know what you’re talking about."

"Oh?" Kilgharrah swivels his head around, assessing Arthur with a knowing, golden-eyed stare. "I do wonder about that, young warlock."

Arthur doesn't know if he quite likes what is being insinuated here. Nor does he think this conversation is actually getting them anywhere.

"If I could take back all the atrocities committed against those with magic, I would," he says, staring right back at Kilgharrah without any fear in his gaze. "But I can't. I can promise you this though: I am _not_ my father. I will constantly strive to become a better man and king than he ever was, and the first step is removing the ban on magic. If you decide to comply with the requests we've given to you today, then I will personally guarantee that you and your kind are never to be hunted again, unless you are the ones to attack Camelot and its allies first."

"...Interesting. It seems like the prophecies may come true after all." Kilgharrah appears to ponder over Arthur's offer for a moment, and then nods. "Fine, I agree with your terms: Uther Pendragon will not die at my hand, nor at any of those with magic. Although, fate does work in mysterious ways sometimes."

That last line sends a foreboding chill down Arthur's spine, but he chooses to dismiss it for now. "How should we send for you when you're needed?"

"Merlin knows the way. That is, if you can get him out of here in time." Kilgharrah unfurls his wings and soars up into air, sending pillows of wind and dust in their direction. "Farewell for now, Arthur Pendragon. We will meet again soon."

Arthur throws up an arm to prevent the flying grit from hitting his eyes and face, and when he lowers it, Kilgharrah is nowhere to be found.

"...What did he mean by 'if you can get him out of here in time'?" Arthur asks, looking back towards Merlin.

"It's nothing," Merlin stammers. "He's just trying to scare me is all. Come on, we should head back to camp before the others start to worry."

But it quickly becomes apparent that something is wrong. As they navigate their way back towards the cave entrance, Merlin's movements grow sluggish, faltering, and he nearly stumbles a few times over seemingly thin air. Arthur reaches out to steady him, and flinches at the unexpected jolt of heat that passes through the pads of his fingertips. "Merlin, you're burning up! Why didn’t you say anything about it?"

"'m fine, I just..." Merlin slurs, his head lolling around on his shoulders. "...need to get outside..."

He then lets out a sharp cry, and doubles over in pain, his body braced against a nearby wall.

"Merlin!" Arthur reaches out for him again, only to stop when his hand hits a prickly barrier of energy enveloping Merlin. "What’s wrong?"

Merlin shakes his head, and tries to stand up. But then his eyes snap open wide, shining such a bright and intense gold that they almost seem to be an ethereal white. The lines of his tattoos begin to shimmer and glow, followed by the rest of his skin, until his entire body looks like a living beacon of light. The air around him lets out a low-pitched drone, and the pebbles at his feet begin to tremble and float upwards.

Arthur is terrified--not for himself, but for Merlin. He has no idea what is happening, but knows he has to do something to stop it. He pushes past the barrier and grabs Merlin by the shoulders, shaking him roughly. "Listen to me! _Merlin, snap out of it_!"

Merlin lets out another weak cry, and then slumps forward into Arthur's arms, unconscious and oblivious to the rest of the world.

*

Arthur doesn't remember how he manages to make it back to the others. The entire thing passes by in a blur: one minute he's in the caves, hefting Merlin up into his arms, and the next he's racing his horse through the evening woods and into the camp, shouting until his throat is raw. "Gaius! Help! Somebody, help!"

Soon an anxious crowd forms around him, all trying to get a glimpse. Gaius pushes through to the front, and gasps when he spots Merlin's prone form propped up against Arthur's chest. "Sire, what happened?"

"I don't know; something's wrong with Merlin," Arthur explains, carefully dismounting so Merlin doesn't fall off in the process. "We went to the dragons to ask for their support, and--"

"You did _what_?" Gaius snaps, the anger in the man's normally calm and collected tone taking Arthur by surprise. "Then there's no time to explain. Sire, can you take Merlin to his tent? And Freya, fetch me some water and my supplies from my tent please. If Alice is back from assisting the midwife in the neighboring village, she should be able to help you." He shakes his head with a sigh, the frustration in his features melting to tenderness the longer he looks down at Merlin. "Oh, my stupid, _foolish_ boy..."

Arthur carries Merlin into the tent as instructed, and then deposits him on the cot. But as soon as he lets go, Merlin begins to thrash and moan, sparks of gold bursting out from underneath his fluttering eyelids. A nearby wine pitcher, leftover from a previous night's dinner, bursts into pieces and sprays its contents everywhere. Various books begin to hop about, rapidly flipping their own pages, and then slamming shut with a loud clap. Trinkets hanging down from the rafters begin to sway, spinning back and forth in different directions.

"...Gaius?" Arthur backs away slowly, whipping his head around as everything begins to quake in place. "Now would be a good enough time as any to start explaining."

Gaius looks equally disturbed by the situation, which offers Arthur little comfort. "I've heard the stories and warnings before, but I've never actually seen it for myself," he says, staring around the tent in awe. "Whenever dragons breed, some of their magic is sloughed off, like a layer of dead skin, and heavily charges the air of the caves the creatures tend to dwell in. In the past, there were those who tried to take advantage of this, wanting to harness the dragons' power for their own. But this kind of magic is wild and untameable, as ancient as the Old Religion itself, and not meant to be contained in the shell of a human body. There are cases where the magic was so great that it has literally burned people alive from the inside."

Arthur feels a fierce pang in his chest as Gaius' words sink in. "Burn people from the inside… You think Merlin tried to claim some of this magic?"

"Yes, I believe so, though not intentionally," Gaius says, pausing to thank Freya when she rushes in with a pail of water and a satchel of supplies in tow. "You see, sire, Merlin's own brand of magic is unique in that it's based more on instinct than anything else. Others would have to train for years just in order to remember the spells he can do in a blink of an eye, and it's all because he draws on the elemental magic from the Earth around him. I think, subconsciously, he pulled this power into himself without fully realizing what he was doing."

"'And yet, here we are,'" Arthur says softly, echoing Kilgharrah's words from earlier. "...Merlin, you complete and utter _idiot_. You knew what going into that cave could cost you."

"Is...Is Merlin going to be okay?" Freya asks, fretfully wringing her hands together, her eyes wide as saucers and filled to the brim with tears.

"Don't worry, m'dear. If anyone can get through this, it’s Merlin." Gaius gives her a comforting pat on the shoulder, and then ushers her gently towards the exit. "Why don't you tell the others what's going on, and that everything will be all right, hmm?"

Freya hesitates, biting her bottom lip, and then nods. Arthur waits until after she leaves before asking, "Is he really going to be okay, Gaius? Tell me the truth."

Gaius sighs, and dips a cloth into the cool spring water that sloshes about in the pail. "I really don't know. There's no medicine I can think of to give him, but I didn't want her to worry and think I was refusing to treat him. Plus, it's best not to have too many people in here, because we have no idea how the magic will react any further." He points to the items that are still moving around like they have gained a life of their own. "All we can do for now is try to keep his fever down, and just wait it out."

Arthur takes the cloth from Gaius, shaking out some of the extra water before pressing it against Merlin's burning brow. Immediately Merlin stops twitching, and the objects floating around the tent fall down to the ground, lifeless once more.

"How extraordinary," Gaius says. "In all the texts I've read on the subject, there only mention of a cure is the use of a center to balance the magic out in the body."

"A center?"

"Yes, quite often a particular artifact, like a stone or a trinket of some sort, something that is made from magic but often contains no real magical power of it's own. I was worried what would we do in the absence of such an item, but it seems that water works just as well."

A sudden and strange realization crosses the forefront of Arthur's mind. "...I don't think it's the water, Gaius."

"What do you mean?" Gaius asks, frowning in confusion. "What else could it be?"

"Watch." Arthur removes his hand from Merlin's forehead, and instantly the magical activity around the room picks up in intensity. When he places it back, everything goes quiet again.

It only takes Gaius a few seconds to catch on. "Oh, of course!" he exclaims. "I don’t know why the thought didn't even occur to me in the first place! Though, I do wonder how wise it is for you to use your own body in such a manner. What if something happens to you as well?"

"I'll be fine," Arthur says, though he isn't sure. For all he knows, he could be risking both of their lives. "I can watch over him during the night."

"Are you sure, sire? It looks like you've had quite an ordeal yourself," Gaius says, now noticing the assorted scrapes and bruises on Arthur's skin from where Kilgharrah had thrown him down on the roughened cave floor. "Let me at least treat your wounds."

At first Arthur goes to shrug Gaius off, saying that it won't be necessary. Yes, there's a dull throb pulsing in his body, sharpened whenever he moves too quickly, but it's nothing he hasn't dealt with before. He'll recover from this.

But Gaius looks so distraught over not being able to do anything that Arthur can't tell him no. Arthur sits down on a stool, making sure not to break skin contact with Merlin, and then nods. "Thank you, Gaius."

It turns out that the medicinal slave that Gaius slathers on Arthur's back does indeed help take out the sting from the scratches that cover it. The calming combination of honey, lavender, and marigold, along with the soft, idle chatter Gaius emits while he's working, starts to lull Arthur into a drowsy state. He has to blink repeatedly in order to keep awake, his eyelids feeling like they've been anchored down to the weight resting on his shoulders.

Despite his best efforts, at one point he must have actually dozed off, because he suddenly snaps his eyes open to find Gaius is gone. There's a few vials left on the table next to Arthur, along with a note written in Gaius's fine, feathery script, explaining that he had gone back to his tent to research the problem more, and that Arthur should send for him if there's any significant change.

As far as Arthur can tell, Merlin doesn't seem to have stirred at all. His skin still has a that weird sort of glow to it, but at least it's faded somewhat, and his breathing is less sporadic. He still feels warm to the touch though, and after Arthur stretches out the kinks from his muscles, he reaches for the pail of water to re-moisten the cloth on Merlin’s forehead.

Only for it slide across the ground into his waiting palm.

Arthur stares at it, and then down at his hand, dumbfounded. But before his mind can fully process what has happened, there's a loud gasping for breath behind him as Merlin springs back to consciousness, followed by a pitiful moan.

"Merlin!" The shifting pail temporarily forgotten for the time being, Arthur grabs one of Merlin's flailing arms. "Merlin, stop! Calm down!"

Merlin freezes, and then weakly flops his head around in Arthur's direction, his golden eyes glassy, unfocused. "...Arth'r?"

"I'm here, Merlin. I'm here," Arthur says, sliding his hand down to Merlin's so their fingers can intertwine. "But what were you thinking? You knew what would happen if you went into that cave while the dragons were mating."

"I didn't!" Merlin protests feebly, at least having the capacity to look guilty. "I mean, I thought I would be able to fight it off if I didn't try to use it. You’re the one who seemed so worried about the outcome of the battle; I thought having the dragons on our side would help."

"You idiot," Arthur mutters, though there's no real bite to his words. He brings their joined hands up to his lips and breathes deeply, squeezing his eyes shut to hide the emotion in them. "How would it have helped if we ended up losing you?"

 _If_ I _ended up losing you_ , remains unsaid. But Arthur still means it; by the gods does he mean it, with an intensity that shocks him. 

He feels Merlin's tighten around his in response, and then hears Merlin whisper, "...Arthur, touch me."

Arthur lets out a soft chuckle, raising an eyebrow at Merlin’s request. "I'm pretty sure we're touching right now, Merlin."

"No, I mean..." Merlin tugs their hands downwards to place them against the spot above his heart. " _Touch me. Please._ "

The sensation of the magic pouring off of him seems to double, then triple in strength, passing straight into Arthur. It feels likes fingertips trailing up his arm and then spreading to the rest of his body, racing up and down until his hair stands on end. But instead of being unpleasant, it's just the opposite, and Arthur has to swallow back a moan as his cock begins to twitch with interest.

But he can't just ignore the severity of the situation. "Merlin, you should get some more rest," he says after a lengthy pause. "You're still unwell, and--"

" _Arthur._ "

That's all Merlin says, just Arthur's name. But the way he says it--the way his lips move to form the letters, the way his tongue clicks against the back of his teeth, the way he pushes out the last syllable on a breathy, needy exhale--speaks more volumes than words ever could.

"Arthur," Merlin says again, and Arthur curses under his breath before he gives in and slides onto the bed. He doesn't even have a chance to get properly situated, because Merlin is already there, pressing up against his side and chanting his name softly. He mouths it over the expanse of Arthur's chest, over the dip of his collarbones, over the bulge of his throat, over the line of his jaw, over the curve of his ear. He repeats it again and again, until it loses all of its traditional meaning, transforming into something that only the two of them will ever share, right here, right now, at this very moment.

Arthur tries one last time to to keep his wits about him, to stop this before it goes too far. Before he goes too far.

"We shouldn't be doing this," he mumbles, an half-hearted attempt retain some sense of chivalry. "Not right now. You don’t understand what you’re asking of me."

But his hands--no, no, his _fingers_ ; they tell a different tale as they traverse the miniature peaks and valleys created by the knobs of Merlin's spine. They spiral downwards, blunt fingernails and calluses from years of swordplay scraping lightly against sweat drenched skin.

Merlin lets out a wistful sigh in response, arching forward until his hardening cock brushes against Arthur's thigh. He kisses Arthur then, mouth soft and yielding, their lips tingling every time they touch. After a minute or so, Arthur realizes it's because the transference of magic is still happening; bizarrely enough, this actually seems to be helping. With the increased skin-to-skin contact, Merlin's movements begin to grow bolder, less stiff, and the complexion of his skin is gradually turning back to normal.

This knowledge erases any lingering doubt left in Arthur's mind, and he pulls his mouth away with a loud, wet smack, ignoring Merlin's whine of protest. He tilts his head down and then flicks out his tongue to trace the lines of the tattoos etched onto Merlin's chest. The taste of dirt, sweat, and an underlying layer of bodily musk washes over him, bitter and dank in his mouth. But it doesn't deter him in the least as he wraps his lips around one of Merlin's nipples and sucks.

"A-ah!" Merlin cries out, and then curls his hands around the back of Arthur's head, fingers snagging on hair and dragging across the scalp. He awkwardly thrusts his hips forward once, the resulting friction enough to make them both pause and groan. 

At the moment there's nothing Arthur wants more than to take himself in hand and jerk off to a fast and messy completion. But he has to consider Merlin's needs over his, and reaches between their bodies to give an exploratory stroke along the length of Merlin's cock. It's a little awkward at first, considering it's the only one he's ever touched beside his own. Then it just becomes almost second nature, his actions spurred on by Merlin's hitched breathing hitting him hotly in his ear. He lets go for a second, just enough so he can quickly lick his palm and coat it sopping wet with saliva, and then returns his hand to the position it was before. He applies pressure with the pad of his thumb as he pumps, following the line of the underside vein up to the swollen head and back down again.

From listening to the sounds coming out of Merlin's mouth, Arthur soon gets an idea of how firmly he should squeeze, how fast he should move, how much he should he should swivel with a twist of his wrist. His own cock, red and aching, peeks out from the side slits of his breechcloth, twitching every now and then as if to remind him of its existence. He widens his grip so he can at least stroke it along with Merlin's, and while his fingers aren't long enough to grasp the two of them together entirely, the maddening sensation of them gliding against each other more than makes up for the loss of tension.

"A-arthur," Merlin whispers with a breathy sob, his entire body trembling. "Please..."

"'Please' what, Merlin?" Arthur asks, his teeth grazing the lobe of Merlin's ear. "Tell me what you want me to do."

"Fuck me," Merlin blurts out. "Please, please, fuck me please."

"Gods have mercy," Arthur hisses, kissing Merlin quiet, only because he's afraid he'll come too soon to comply with the request if he hears any more begging. His fingers return to travel the small of Merlin's back, but then dips down lower this time until they're nestled in the cleft of his ass. Arthur drags them along the sensitive strip of skin there, hesitant, and then prods the dry tip of one lone finger against the rim of Merlin's hole.

Merlin lets out a whimper and presses back onto it eagerly, but Arthur yanks his finger away before it can go in any deeper. Even though he's never practiced the art of buggery, he's overheard enough deeds of conquest and dirty tales told around the campfire from some of the knights to know the basics.

"Hold on, I don't want to hurt you," he says as an explanation as he climbs out of bed, keeping a hand on Merlin to keep him still. Arthur examines the vials Gaius left behind, hoping one of them will provide some use. The first one he uncorks smells foul and looks even fouler, and Arthur can't cap it back up fast enough. But the second one has a light and airy scent, and when he spills some of the oily substance on his fingers to test, it seems to slide rather nicely without leaving a sticky feeling afterwards.

Having made his choice, Arthur climbs back onto the bed. "Roll over," he says, helping Merlin flip onto his stomach before kneeling over him. "Try to relax."

Merlin does as instructed, but then props himself on his elbows, lifting his ass upwards into the air. He's still shaking, but it seems to be more from anticipation rather than exertion. He angles his head back to give Arthur a goading smile, and even does a little enticing sway of his hips.

Arthur has to resist the urge to roll his eyes. Earlier it looked there was a possibility that Merlin might actually be dying, but it doesn't seem to stop the idiot from acting like his normal cheeky self now. Even if he looks healthier than he did before, his eyes still flicker from gold to blue back to gold, his body resonating heat like a living furnace.

"Do you even have an ounce of self preservation in your body?" Arthur asks, spreading the cheeks of Merlin's ass apart to pour some of the oil liberally all over his hole.

"Probably not," Merlin says, and then croons when the first of Arthur's lubed up fingers sinks slowly inside him. " _Yessss_..."

Arthur bites back a snort. He tries to take things easy and at a comfortable speed; not only because of Merlin's current condition, but also considering neither of them have done something like this before. But it's difficult when Merlin bucks his hips and tries to seat himself on Arthur's finger, moaning, "More, Arthur, _please._."

"Damn it, Merlin, your _mouth_ ," Arthur growls, but complies by adding a second finger, and then eventually a third. He has to turn and twist his hand so his knuckles can fit through the tight ring of Merlin's hole, but with each and every thrust he's able to go farther and farther inside. He curls his fingers experimentally, stroking from the inside, and is rewarded for his efforts when Merlin hoarsely shouts out something in the Draig language that Arthur doesn't understand.

"Mind translating that for me?" he asks, slightly gloating over the fact that he seems to have the upper hand for once. "Hmm, Merlin?"

"You...you prat..." Merlin gasps out, his words muffled as his head drops forward into the pillows. "If you don't fuck me already, I'll...I'll..."

"You'll do what?" Arthur teases. But even as he says that, he unties the knot of his breechcloth and tosses it off to the side. He slicks up his cock with the remaining oil, and then lines up the tip with Merlin's entrance. Carefully he pushes into the moist, welcoming heat, inch by agonizing inch, until he's seated completely inside.

He wants to take time to acclimatize to it, to revel in the feeling, to wait for the realization of what he's really doing to hit. But already he senses Merlin getting antsy underneath him, so Arthur pulls out halfway, only to push back in. He does this again, and again, and again, until it gets to the point where he's slamming into Merlin with an almost constant rhythm.

But even that doesn't seem to be enough. "Harder," Merlin says, his words coming out as a drawn out groan. "Harder, Art-- _Oh gods_ …"

Arthur groans as well, hunching forward so he's able to hold himself upright by pushing his hands against the bed and keeping his arms locked into place. He places his chest against Merlin's back, continuing to snap his hips back and forth as he lightly sinks his teeth into the tender flesh of Merlin's shoulder. Merlin arches against him with a needy whine, blindly reaching up to cup the back of Arthur's head and hold him in place.

They move together in almost perfect unison, somehow becoming attuned to each others bodies. No more words are exchanged between them, but Arthur starts to learn when to increase the depth or speed by Merlin’s body language and then adjusts accordingly. 

As he approaches climax, he shifts positions so he’s able to grab Merlin’s leaking cock, smearing pre-come that beads from the slit as he strokes in synchronization with his thrusts. This must be the final push that Merlin needed, because the muscles in his body suddenly go tense and clench around Arthur. He lets out a low, strangled cry, and then...

And then it feels like they’re hit by a wave of magic, an explosion of golden light illuminating the inside of the tent. It last only for a second or so, but long enough for Arthur to come as well, eventually fading away until it’s like it was never there at all. 

Arthur withdraws his softening cock from Merlin's hole with a loud squelch."What," he asks between harsh, haggard breaths, "the hell was that?"

"Um," Merlin says weakly, his body collapsed into a crumpled heap on top of the now damp and sticky sheets. At least his skin has completely returned back to its usual hue, and there’s no trace of gold left in his tired, blue eyes. "I think you might have got all the extra magic out?"

"And?" Arthur prompts as he lies down beside Merlin, sensing there's something else. It's almost as if he can hear the Merlin's heartbeat quickening from--

"Wait, it’s like I can….like I can feel you, in here." Arthur holds a hand to his chest, and looks over at Merlin, eyes widening. "Why can I feel you?"

Merlin gasps. "... You can actually feel that?" he asks cautiously, placing a hand over his own chest as well. "Then, can you also feel this?"

There's a small tug to the center of Arthur's chest, like someone is pulling on an invisible string tied around the bones of his ribcage. "Yes," he says, staring at Merlin. "What is going on?"

"It's the bond that’s been formed between us," Merlin whispers, his voice solemn and wavering. "Normally those without magic wouldn't be able to feel it, but I guess now you're the exception."

"Bond?" Arthur repeats, struggling to grasp the concept. But then he remembers and it starts to make sense. "What Kilgharrah said back in the caves, about both dragons and dragonlords mating for life. It's true then."

Merlin nods slowly, lowering his gaze. "Yes, it's true. It's why hardly anyone has ever heard of them. Kilgharrah thinks I might even be the last one left." He pauses, biting his lip, and then pleads, "But please don't think differently of me because of that. If you find someone else, or if you have to find a Queen someday in order to get a heir to carry on your legacy, I won't stand in your way. But I will always be at your side, Arthur. If you let me."

Arthur closes his eyes. Although he knows it will be a subject that will pop up again later, he can't even consider the notion of being with anyone else. Not right now.

"...It was your father then," he says instead, encircling Merlin in his arms, "who was killed in the attack against Kilgharrah’s mate. Tell me about him."

"I never knew him," Merlin says, shaking his head before resting it against Arthur's shoulder. "He stayed with my mother for a little bit, but had to leave when there was reports of bounty hunters searching for him in the area. My mother could never find him again, could never tell him about me. I don't know if he ever knew he had a son."

Arthur tightens his embrace, but says nothing in order for Merlin to continue.

"I was around five years old when it happened," Merlin says, sounding small and scared as he recounts the story. "I didn't know then that dragonlord's gift is passed down to the sons only when the fathers die. I was outside, playing in the fields, when I felt this overwhelming rush of sadness hit me. It was like, thousands of dragons, all roaring out in pain at once. I didn't stop sobbing for days afterwards; it took my mother forever to get me to tell her what happened. And around that time is when the Druids came."

Arthur doesn't even realize he's started crying until he feels the tips of Merlin's fingers brush away the wet warmth from his cheeks.

"I'm sorry," Arthur says roughly, trying to swallow around the lump that's lodged itself in his throat. "I'm so, so sorry, for everything my father has done because of me--"

" _Don't_ ," Merlin interrupts, cupping Arthur's face in between both of his hands. "Don't you dare apologize. You've said it before, you are not your father, so you shouldn't have to pay for his mistakes. You will be a better king than he will ever be, and that is enough."

"Why?" Arthur asks, bitter self-deprecation coiling like a snake in his gut. "I'm good with a sword, Merlin, and I know how to listen to the people, but that's about it. I’m scared that no matter how hard I’ll try to be a good king, I’ll end up letting my people down, just like him. I hardly fit the prophecy of this great king you so believe in."

"Not the prophecy, you," Merlin corrects, gentle but firm. He kisses Arthur’s temples sweetly before pressing their foreheads together and whispering, "I believe in you, Arthur, not as the king you'll become, but the man you are today. And it’s about time that you accept that too."

*

The next morning, the entire clan gathers around to share their relief over Merlin’s miraculous recovery. Gaius raises a bemused eyebrow in Arthur’s direction, but says nothing about, for which Arthur is eternally grateful. For as much as he would love to probe into the healer’s expertise on the subject of magical bonds, Arthur doesn’t really think the conversation is worth the awkwardness and embarrassment that might possibly come with it. The new ability to locate Merlin wherever he is, just by tugging on the string of magic that connect them, is something Arthur will have to figure out on his own.

Besides, there are more important matters at hand; the pounding of war drums have begun to thunder out on the clan’s metaphorical doorstep.

The reconnaissance scouts that were sent out earlier return to camp a few days later, bringing grim tidings back with them. An army has been spotted departing the gates of Camelot, led by Uther Pendragon himself. That alone is cause enough for concern; ever since he hit middle-age, Uther has fallen into the habit of sending out men led by someone else in his place--usually Arthur himself or the Head of the knights. To have Uther take charge of the expedition himself illustrates the severity of the matter.

However, as Arthur knows all too well, one of his father’s many flaws is his pride. The number of troops Uther supposedly brings with him is not even a third of what Camelot has under her command, probably considering the Druids a minor pest that needs to finally be swatted rather than a serious threat. While they’re still outnumbered, Arthur thinks that the clan might now have a better chance at victory. 

This is where Arthur’s tactical skills are being put to the test. Both day and night he’s either guessing which military strategies his father will employ and how to counter them, helping to collect weapons and supplies so that everyone is properly outfitted and prepared, poring over countless maps and comparing notes to determine which direction the army will come from, or sparring with the other warriors so he’s not rusty from his recent lack of training. 

On the third straight day of this, Merlin presents him with a beautifully handcrafted sword. It almost looks like the one that was originally confiscated from him, but when he looks closer, he notices indecipherable runes written up and down the sides of the gleaming blade.

"I had it forged in the fires of a dragon’s breath, specifically for you," Merlin says. When Arthur starts to get upset, Merlin laughs and holds up his hands defensively. "Don’t worry, I didn’t go back to the caves. I called Kilgharrah to the fields while you were asleep last night so he could do it then."

The heft and swing of the sword in Arthur’s hands is like nothing he’s ever felt before, almost as if it’s an extension of his arm. He thanks Merlin profusely, and tells him to pass on the thanks to Kilgharrah as well. 

But that’s not the only gift that Arthur receives. Some of the more experienced clan warriors get together to give him his own suit of Draig armor, made from the deep golden scales of a dragon that’s passed away due to natural causes. Each piece is tough as steel but still flexible enough to move nimbly around in, lighter than chainmail and molding to his body like a second layer of skin.

Just when he thinks that’s the last of it, Freya pulls him off to the side one evening to hand him a bundle of red cloth. Arthur unfolds it curiously, and gasps; it’s his cloak identifying him a knight of Camelot, the one he was wearing when he was captured. He thought it had been destroyed beyond salvaging in the last battle, but all the blood and mud stains have carefully been scrubbed clean, the rips and tears repaired. When he examines it further, he sees the small (if not slightly uneven) stitches holding it together.

"I’m still learning how to mend and sew," Freya says, timidly showing the multiple bandages wrapped around the tips of her fingers. "So I know it’s not perfect, but--"

She doesn’t even finish her sentence before Arthur is twirling her around and hugging her to show his gratitude. 

It serves as a reminder as to why Arthur is doing this; he fights for people like her who can’t, but who still make a difference in this battle in their own special little way.

As much as Arthur would love a month or two to strengthen the clan’s defenses, he knows he’s running out of time. Each day there a new report tracking Uther and his army as they grow nearer, and soon Arthur can see the rise of thick, black smoke from campfires out on the horizon. 

With Merlin by his side to translate if needed, Arthur decides to call everyone together for a clan meeting. After making sure every member is seated and accounted for, he clears his throat loudly and waits until he has their rapt attention.

"For many of you here tonight, your entire life has consisted of running away in order to survive," he says, raising his voice so that he can be heard across the camp. "I do not blame or think ill of you if you wish to do the same now. But consider this: is it really worth it? To be separated from your family and friends, to be unable to keep a stable home of your own, to be denied freedom to simply live in peace?"

Arthur pauses, giving Merlin enough time to repeat his words in the Draig tongue before he continues, "So you can leave right now if you want; I won't stop you. But even if you run now, I can tell you that my father, and men like him, will never stop hunting you. Unless you make a stand now."

No one in the crowd makes a single sound, but then someone suddenly stands up. Arthur recognizes the man as Percival, a refugee who came to the Draig clan as a child when his entire village was ransacked by bandits. He's a quiet, shy soul who mostly keeps to himself, but is a big and strong as an ox; a common sight around camp is to see him swinging some of the children from the trunks of his arms.

"I'm not running. Not anymore," he says, shaking his head to emphasize his point. "I want to fight."

The rest of the clan begins to buzz with a hushed murmur of agreement. 

"...Aw, hell, if Percy is staying, I am too," the man who was sitting by Percival says with a drawl as he rises to his feet. It takes Arthur a second to remember his name; Gwaine, who seemed like just a drunk sort of rogue at first, but demonstrated his keen sense of swordplay when he and Arthur were sparring during one of the training sessions before.

"Us as well," A dark-haired woman seated to the left side of Arthur announces, her lips curving into a wicked smile as she also tugs the smaller woman next to her up. "We can protect ourselves, just like everybody else. Why should the men have all the fun?"

Arthur balks at first. Not just because this isn't a game and shouldn't be treated as such, but also because he knows that his father's men will not hesitate in slaughtering women and children. But there's something about the dangerous glint in the woman's eyes that holds his tongue before he realizes she's the same High Priestess who played the lead role in the Beltane ritual.

"Very well then," he says, giving her a quick nod before looking out to the others. "Anyone else?"

"Me too!" A voice pipes up from all the way in the back, followed by another. "And me!"

Soon the night air is filled with people shouting their decision to stay, all mingling together to form a raucous symphony of hope and determination. Arthur waits for the noise to die down before speaking again. "So be it. I only ask that some of you volunteer to stay behind in order to care for the wounded. The rest of you will ride out with me at dawn so we can meet my father’s army head on before they even have a chance to reach this camp." He thrusts his swords upwards, holding it aloft in the air. "Tomorrow, we fight! For you, for your family, for your friends; for Albion!"

"For Albion!" the clan repeats, led into a chant by Merlin. "For Albion! For Albion! _For Albion!_ "

*

Dawn comes much too quickly for Arthur. He has only gone through the motions of sleep, with no sucess of actual slumber. The entire night he spent lying in bed, wide awake, his mind racing over what the day will bring.

Judging by the dark circles under his eyes, Merlin has fared no better. 

"What are you thinking about?" he asks as he assists Arthur slip on the breastplate of his armor.

"Too many things to count," Arthur answers truthfully. "The battle, of course. My father. The safety of the others." He pauses, and then a small grin spreads across his face. "You, and the fact that you're actually wearing something for once."

Merlin huffs his annoyance. He's already dressed in his own set of Draig armor, the scales polished to a brilliant copper shine. "Not by choice. But I know if I didn't, you, Gaius, and everyone else would never let me hear the end of it."

Arthur shrugs, not bothering to deny it. After Merlin snaps the last piece of armor on, Arthur reaches out and snags him by the wrist. "Promise me you'll be careful out there."

"Me?" Merlin asks, the picture of mock innocence. "When am I not?"

" _Merlin_ , I mean it."

"It’ll be okay, Arthur," Merlin says, his expression sobering instantly as he presses his lips against the collar Arthur still has tied around his wrist. He then intertwines their fingers together, letting a calming wave of magic transfer through their palms. "We share a bond now, remember?"

 _That didn’t prevent your father from being killed_ , Arthur thinks. But before he can say such a thing, Merlin leads him outside the tent where the others are waiting to depart. Arthur gives them all nod of acknowledgement before climbing onto his designated steed and heading towards the front. There's no time left for any more inspiring words or speeches. Not today.

Arthur has to admit the clan makes a fearsome sight as they ride out, dressing as dragons while on top of the backs of wild horses. He hopes they can retain some element of surprise, but in case they don’t, at least their wild appearance can strike fear into the hearts of Camelot’s weaker-willed men. 

As soon as they emerge from the woods surrounding the camp, Arthur spots his fathers approaching army, which shows how much in danger the clan was in being ambushed. He lets out a piercing whistle, communicating with the others through hand signals, making his message clear; Uther and his men must be stopped before they can proceed any further.

The clan soon forms a constantly moving circle around those that fly Camelot's banners. Arthur does this for two reasons: one, it makes it hard for the enemy to know how many are actually attacking them, and two, it makes a great intimidation tactic.

At first, it seems to work. The Camelot soldiers seem unprepared for such a maneuver, no doubt told that the Draig clan were wild savages, incapable of any logical thought. Many throw their spears in retaliation, but miss when their intended targets skitter out of range.

Then Arthur sees his father for the first time in what feels like ages, and nearly loses all sense of concentration over the battle.

Uther seems much older than Arthur remembers, somewhat smaller. The thinning hair at his temples has gone gray in his age, almost white, and the lines of his face are deeply etched by bitterness he’s carried with him over the years. When Arthur was younger, his father meant the world to him, and was someone he always aspired to become one day. But now, he can see Uther for who he truly is; simply an angry, worn-out man, guilty of making mistakes.

It's only when Uther draws his sword and starts giving the word to attack does Arthur snap out of his thoughts. He holds up his hand to signal the others to halt before dismounting from his horse.

"Father!" he shouts, hoping his voice can carry over the din of the fray. "Stop!"

Uther freezes in mid-command and turns, staring in disbelief. "...Arthur? Arthur, my son, is that really you?" He pushes eagerly towards the front lines, and then scowls when he notices Arthur's strange attire. "What on earth have they done to you?"

"Please, Father, listen to me," Arthur pleads, gesturing back to Merlin and the others. "The Druids, they're willing to become our allies if we just--"

"Allies?" Uther spits out, tightening the grip on his sword. "They're the ones that have kept you as their prisoner for all this time. How can they be our allies after everything they've done?"

"What about everything we've done?" Arthur counters back. "How many of their people have died because of us? I'm sure their loss greatly outnumbers our own."

"Damn it, Arthur!" Uther snarls, his features twisting into something dark and ugly. "Can't you see that they've put you under some sort of spell? It's why their kind can never be trusted!"

"No, that's not true--"

But Arthur's protests seem to fall on deaf ears. Uther turns his back on Arthur before announcing coolly, "Men, seize the crown prince. Kill all the others."

Arthur is only given a second for the full cruelty of his father's actions to sink in. Then he has to hurry to defend himself against men he has once considered his own. Many of them he's trained personally himself, so the idea of cutting down fellow knights weighs heavily on his heart. He tries more to disarm rather than actually kill, but knows he can't keep that up forever. 

There's a high-pitched thrum in the air as the army from Camelot begins to employ crossbows, followed by the pained whinnying of horses being shot down underneath their Draig riders. Some of the archers even dip their arrows into burning oil, shooting a volley of flames that sails over Arthur's head. They don’t aim for any of the warriors, but instead land at the edge of the nearby woods.

The very same woods where the clan’s camp is located.

"No!" Arthur bellows out once he realized what his father has planned. The weather has been going through a rather hot and dry spell lately, which means it doesn't take long before the treetops are set ablaze. Screams echo out in the distance, and some figures rush out from the treeline to escape being burned, only to be picked off one by one by Camelot’s longbows. 

Only a coward would use fire in such a way, or a madman. Arthur isn't sure which his father has become.

Then again, he thinks grimly, maybe the best thing to do in this situation is to fight fire with fire. 

He catches Merlin's eye across the battlefront and nods only once. Merlin nods in return and throws his head back, letting out roar powerful enough to knock down the enemies around him. " _O drakon, fthengomai au se kalon; sil katerkheo deuro!_ "

Before long, the skies begin to darken as large winged shadows block out the rising sun. Kilgharrah swoops down in the lead of four other dragons , blasting out a stream of fire that ravages its way through Camelot's army. Many of the men abandon their posts to run away in terror, their weapons crunching under the dragons' feet as they land.

"See if some of you can protect the camp and put out the fires before they spread any further!" Arthur yells, directing with a wave of his hand. "Everyone else, with me! Charge!"

The two lines of opposing forces collide together with a loud clanging of swords and shields. Blasts of magic whizz through the air, only to be countered by arrows and spears, and soon bodies from both sides begin to pile on the ground. But although the clan’s numbers are fewer, their desire to succeed seems to be stronger. They fight like they have nothing to lose, because in reality, they have everything to gain.

Arthur pushes through the throng, seeking out his father. He’s nervous about confronting the man who has raised him, cared for him, and loved him--or so Arthur once thought. But Uther has made his feelings very clear by his actions today alone.

"Father!" Arthur calls out when he finds Uther once more. "Again, I ask you to stop this madness!"

Uther jerks his sword out of the body of a Draig warrior, grimacing as if something tasteful has fallen onto his blade. "Madness?" he repeats, seething with anger. "You speak of madness when you’re the one who became a traitor to us all by siding with this wretched group of people? They are a blight against this very kingdom."

"Why? Just because they have magic?" Arthur steps forward, pointing his sword in his father’s direction. "The same magic that you once willingly allowed to be used in order to create me?"

All the blood drains from Uther’s face. "...What are you talking about?"

"Do you try to deny it?" Arthur asks as he advances closer. "You wanted an heir so badly, you turned to the same sorcery you claim to hate just so you could get one. Even when they tried to warn you of the costs, you refused to listen, didn’t you?"

"That is utter nonsense," Uther says, lacking any conviction, beads of sweat dripping down his brow. "Your mother--"

"My mother is dead because of you!" Arthur shouts, using the heat of the moment to knock the sword out of Uther’s hand. "And who knows how many countless others, just so you could hide your shame! Now then, _sire_ ; pick up your sword and face me."

"Arthur--"

"Pick up your _sword_ ," Arthur growls, grinding each word between his teeth. "I’m not going to repeat myself a second time."

Uther stares at Arthur like he’s become a complete stranger. "...Very well," he says, taking the hilt of his sword back into his grasp. "Perhaps this is the only way to get through to you."

He then lunges with the ferocity and skill of a well-seasoned warrior, reminding Arthur why almost everything he’s ever learned about fighting has come from his father. He deftly blocks Uther’s attack before attempting to execute one of his own, their blades letting out a metal screech as they slide against one another. 

Though he and Uther are more or less equally matched in terms of expertise, Arthur has the advantage of youth in his favor. He can tell when his father’s movements start to falter, strength ebbing away as time passes, and Arthur strikes accordingly. With one last mighty swing, he sends Uther’s weapon flying while knocking him to the ground. 

Before Uther can attempt to get back up, Arthur is there, placing the tip of his sword underneath Uther’s chin. "Do you yield, sire?"

All the fighting around them seems to cease immediately, with both sides waiting with bated breath for the outcome. Some of Camelot’s men start to rush forward to assist their king, but Uther holds them off by raising up his hand. 

"Arthur, I want you to carefully think about you’re doing here," he says slowly. "I have tried to protect our kingdom after all these years, and this is how you choose to repay me?"

"You are nothing but a liar and a hypocrite!" Arthur yells. His body is trembling from exertion and rage, his jaw clenched so tightly that it aches. He knows he could end a lot of years filled with suffering and pain right now with one quick thrust of his blade. 

And yet, he can’t bring himself to go through with it.

"But despite all this," he continues quietly, "you are still my father. If you swear you’ll lift the ban on magic and abdicate the throne to me, I’ll let you live."

"What? No, wait, Arthur, listen to--"

" _Swear to me_!"

Uther swallows deeply, a drop of blood trickling down his throat from where the sword has nicked his chin. "...I swear it."

Arthur blinks in surprise. He never expected a proud, noble man like his father to give in to his demands so easily. "Tell the men to drop their weapons. Now."

"You heard him," Uther says when there are signs of protest from the ranks. "Do as he says."

One by one, the Camelot soldiers lay their weapons down, their movements watched the whole time by eagle-eyed members of the Draig clan. Some of them sit down and put their hands on their heads without even being prompted, eying the dragons that still circle the field warily.

Arthur finally lifts his sword from Uther's neck and sheaths it. "You two," he says, gesturing to a pair of knights closest to him. "I am putting you personally in charge of guarding my father on the trip back to Camelot. Do not let him escape; bind him if you have to, but still treat him with respect. Do you understand?"

"Yes sire," they reply in unison, bowing their heads deeply.

But it's the moment they go to bring Uther to his feet that he seems to snap. "No!" he roars, slamming the men down while scrabbling for a sword. "I will not be treated like a common prisoner by my own son!"

"Arthur, look out!"

Merlin suddenly barrels into Arthur just as Uther surges forward. There's the sickening sound of steel sliding into skin, followed by Merlin's pained whimper just before he goes limp.

Arthur reacts without thinking; he shoves his sword into his father's chest in one fluid movement, the blade cutting through the chainmail like it was parchment.

It's only when he hears Uther's rattling gasps for air that Arthur registers what he's done. "Father, no!" he shouts, cradling Uther in his arms as they slide down to the ground together. "It wasn't supposed to happen like this!"

"I promised your mother that I would do anything to keep you safe," Uther croaks as the life bleeds out his body. "I'm so sorry...Ygraine...I failed you..."

He gives one last shudder, and with that, the King of Camelot is dead.

"...Goodbye, Father," Arthur whispers, lowering the lids over Uther's glassy eyes. "May you finally be at peace."

"Quick! Someone go and fetch Gaius!" A voice calls out. "Emrys is hurt!"

Arthur whips his head around. Oh gods, he wonders how he could have forgotten about Merlin. 

He rushes over to the others and is horrified by what he finds; it appears Uther's blow has managed to find a weak point in the Draig's armor. 

"Merlin!" Arthur falls to his knees and immediately clamps his hands over the jagged wound on the inside of Merlin's thigh. But there's just so much, too much for Arthur's liking. Sparing a passing lament for ruining Freya's hard work, he rips off a strip of fabric from his cloak and wraps it around Merlin's leg in an attempt to stem the blood loss. 

"You idiot," he says as he works, trying to keep his hands from shaking too much. "Do you ever think things though?"

"No," Merlin admits with a woozy grin. "But that's how I met you, isn't it?"

Arthur chokes out a chuckle. "I don't think that's really helping you right now." He then threads their fingers together, hating how weakened Merlin's grip is compared to usual. "What happened to all that talk about us having a bond earlier?"

Merlin's grin just grows wider. "How do you think I knew you were in trouble?"

"You idiot," Arthur says again, making the words seem almost fond and endearing. He tries to take some of the pain away using the connection they share, and hisses when it feels like his leg has been set on fire. "Damn it, where the hell is Gaius?!"

"I’m here, sire. I came fast as I could," Gaius says as he pushes through the crowd, freezing when he sees Merlin sprawled out on the ground. "Oh _Merlin_ , what have you done to yourself this time?"

"You know me, Gaius," Merlin says with pitiful laugh, his head rolling about on his shoulders. "Just trying to live up to my namesake on a daily basis."

Arthur frowns in confusion. "What does he mean?" he asks while turning to Gaius for explanation. "Is that the shock starting to set in?"

"No, unfortunately that's just his horrible attempt at humor." Gaius gives Merlin a stern look. "The Druids call him Emrys because it means 'immortal,’ though it doesn't also mean invincible, a fact which he tends to forget quite often."

"Then…" Arthur says once realization sets in. "He’s not going to die?"

"I’ll have him to treat him once we’re back at camp to be sure," Gaius says, "but it looks like he’ll live this time at least. That is, if I don’t kill him myself for frightening us all like this."

"You shouldn’t have kept this from me, Merlin," Arthur says, squeezing Merlin’s fingers gently as a makeshift stretcher is brought over to carry Merlin. "No more secrets after this, okay?"

Merlin returns the gesture, letting go only after he’s carted off back to camp. Arthur watches him leave, every fiber in his being wishing he could go along.

But he can’t. Not right now, not when everyone else is looking to him for further instructions, and that’s when the weight of what’s really just happened finally comes crashing down upon him.

He has won, but at what cost? His father’s body still lies cooling on the battlefield, just one of the many others that have fallen in this war, as both sides have suffered major casualties. Arthur is now king in all aspects other than the lack of the official crown on his head, with not one, but two armies at his beck and command. He has freed an entire group of people and achieved something that has constantly been strived for by everyone.

He should be feeling victorious, celebratory. But all he feels is an overwhelming sense of grief that peace had to come at such a heavy price.

There’s a small tug on his arm, and he looks down to find a young girl from the clan standing next to him. In her grubby and soot-covered hands she holds up a single daisy; the stem is broken in the middle, the leaves wilted, and some of the petals are even missing. 

But right now, it’s one of the most beautiful things Arthur has ever seen. 

He accepts the flower gratefully, picks the girl up into her arms, and weeps into the comfort provided by her tiny, delicate shoulder.

*

**EPILOGUE:**

Three months.

It's been nearly three months since Arthur was captured. For three months he's been living with the Draig clan. For three months he's known Merlin. For three months his views on magic have been challenged.

It seems so amazing to Arthur on how much his life has changed in such a short amount of time.

As he walks throughout camp, he can already see signs of progress that gives him hope for the future. There's a flurry of activity around the cooking fires as meals are prepared to feed the hungry bellies of both clan members and Camelot soldiers alike. A hunting party has also returned, carrying their spoils of a successful venture while animatedly discussing the difference in their hunting strategies. Some of them swap stories despite the language barrier, with an uproar of laughter and good-natured thumping of backs quickly becoming commonplace.

While there was some hesitation of both parties at first, Arthur is glad to discover that most of the people of Camelot do not have the same prejudices as their former king. Magic has always been met with a sense of fear and dread, but it seems that was mostly because Uther's ban on sorcery more than anything else. Arthur has lost count on how many of his knights have approached him and confessed to using magic, whether it be protective talismans or enchanted armor, and begged for his forgiveness. But as far as Arthur is concerned, as long as it was never used in a harmful, destructive way, he no longer feels ill at thought of magic in the very heart of Camelot.

He enters the main tent unannounced and frowns when he spots Merlin standing up by the table. "Did Gaius say it's okay for you to be out of bed so soon?"

Merlin lets out a yelp of surprise, then flinches as he accidentally puts pressure on his injured leg. "Please don't tell him? If I had to stay in that bed any longer, I'd go crazy."

"I'm pretty sure it's too late for that," Arthur says with a grin. He crosses over and throws Merlin's arm over his shoulder. "Come on. If you really want to test that leg out, you should only do it while I'm around."

They walk around the inside of the tent once, then twice. After the third time Merlin is trembling like a leaf, having already worked up a sweat from such a little amount of exercise. He sighs in relief when they finally sit down on the edge of the bed, resting his shoulder on Arthur's shoulder. "I hate feeling like this."

"Well, maybe you should stop throwing yourself into danger so often. It's starting to become a habit of yours," Arthur teases. His fingers idle rub soothing circles into the small of Merlin's back before he adds softly, "...I never did say thank you by the way."

"Mmhmm," Merlin hums in response, saying nothing else.

Seconds of silence tick by as they simply sit together, their fingers clasped together and held in their lap. When Arthur closes his eyes, he can clearly hear the steady beat of their hearts, a constant assurance that they're still alive.

"We head back to Camelot tomorrow," he says, not sure how else to bring the subject up. "I know you wanted to come with us, but it's been five days already. We can't wait any longer."

"Oh," Merlin says dully. "Is Morgana going back with you then?"

Arthur feels his jaw clench. In the aftermath of the battle, it had been revealed to him why the High Priestess had looked so familiar to him: the kingdom she had escaped from as young girl was none other than Camelot itself.

"Uther kept me as his ward," she had explained when she finally decided to share her story with him. "But the truth is, we're more brother and sister than we ever knew."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"I was scared that would be just like Uther, or tell him about me. When I found out I had magic, I ran before he could do anything, taking only my maidservant with me because she insisted." Morgana had paused, looking truly frightened, and then had forced a pained smile. "Plus, I didn't even know if you remembered who I was."

It hurt to know he's had another sibling kept from him all this time. But he understands why she kept her identity a secret until now.

"No," Arthur says, responding to Merlin's question with a shake of his head. "We both decided that she'd be happier if she stayed here with the Druids. Besides, there's no point in her attending the burial, even if it's for her father as well."

It's hard to talk about the plans for Uther's burial when Arthur has yet to come to grips with his passing. While Uther might have been a flawed man, there's no denying that he cared about Camelot and its people in his own sort of way. He was still a king, and Arthur is determined to treat him as such, even in death.

"I don't blame her," Merlin says. "I know he was your father, Arthur, but he's done so many horrible things."

"I know that, Merlin, believe me, I do," Arthur says, opening his eyes with a deep sigh. "But a part of me wonders if I would have turned out to be just like him, had the same thing happened to me."

"What, old age?" Merlin knocks his shoulder playfully against Arthur's. "Because if that's all that you're worried about, then I probably shouldn't tell you that you have a couple of gray hairs on the back of your head already."

"What?" Arthur splutters indignantly. "I'll show you gray hairs!"

Merlin lets out a very high-pitched squeal when Arthur begins to tickle his sides. "No, stop, Arthur, mercy!"

"Say it! Say I'm not old!"

"You're not old! You're not old!" Merlin exclaims, squirming away from his touch. "Please, I'm sorry!"

Arthur grins in triumph, giving a quick ruffle to Merlin's hair before letting go. "That's better. I think, if you don't become my Court Sorcerer, you should at least be my personal jester."

"Oh joy," Merlin mutters as he smooths down his hair. "Either way, I'll have to wear a funny hat."

"Getting you to wear normal clothes would be enough of a miracle," Arthur says with a roll of his eyes.

Merlin gives an injured sniff and turns his face away. Arthur's not stupid; he knows this Merlin's personal way of dealing with their impending separation.

"...I will come back for you," Arthur murmurs, reaching out to pull Merlin into his arms. "As soon as Gaius says you're fit to travel."

"You promise?" 

There's countless things Arthur could say to try convince Merlin. But when Arthur opens his mouth, he can't seem to form the right words.

Then it comes to him: the collar.

"I'll just wear this until then," Arthur says, unknotting the piece of leather and slipping it back onto his neck once again. As soon as he hears the click, he feels Merlin's magic surging through it, almost as it's a piece of Merlin himself. "So you can tell me to come back, no matter what."

"That's not...that's not what I meant!" Merlin protests. "I do trust you to come back on your own, Arthur; you don't need to wear the collar for my sake!"

He goes to remove the collar with a flick of his hand, but Arthur stops him. "Merlin, tell me. Tell me what you want me to do."

For a moment, it looks like Merlin will refuse to go along with it. But then he whispers, "...I want you to be safe. And to come back as soon as you can, though I know it might take you awhile to do...whatever kings need to do I guess."

Arthur ducks his head down in order to hide his smile. "Anything else?"

Merlin hesitates, and then says, "Just kiss me. Kiss me until I tell you to stop."

As Arthur leans his mouth forwards to meet Merlin's, he whispers, "As you wish."

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Art for Paper Legends 2013 — i'll set you up (against the stars)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/955597) by [bloodsongs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodsongs/pseuds/bloodsongs)




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